A Safe Way Home
by InnocentCulprit61
Summary: A brutal attack by a notorious gang on one of their own and cracks begin to show.  WARNINGS graphic language, violence, mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

_A/n: Without wanting to be totally specific about what happens in this story, please note rating. WARNINGS for graphic language, graphic violence and mature themes._

* * *

Chapter 1: Sharpeville

_Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to .._. ~Charles Dickens

* * *

"Take your time."

The voice was gruff.

Comforting in its own way, laced with distracted concern, but gruffer than JD Dunne would have expected - given that he was bleeding. He tasted whiskey on the lip of a cup, tried to push the offering away but Buck wouldn't let him.

"I'm fine, Buck. Leave me alone."

"You're not fine, kid."

JD wasn't fine. He couldn't talk properly for a start. He felt lousy, and he wanted to go home. Back home. For the first time in months, he wondered why the hell he'd seen fit to come out west in the first damn place. And this wasn't because it felt like his brains were leaking from his head, or even because they'd almost gotten themselves put to death in a barn. It was something else.

He let go of the sodden bandanna plastered against the side of his face, leaned forward, tried to see round Buck's planted frame.

"Ezra?" His voice cracked on the second half of the name.

"We got him."

That wasn't good enough. Just really ... not good enough. JD had too many questions, too many images flashing in his head, too many fears he wouldn't know how to articulate.

He steeled himself, tried to make his voice steady. "Buck ... Ezra?"

"We got him, JD, we got him."

The gruffness softened. Buck had tugged away the bandana, refolded it, then pressed it back against the gently-oozing wound. Annoyed, JD reached up and pushed Buck's hand away, replacing it and the pressure with his own.

He had a thumping headache, felt sick as a dog and he wasn't convinced by Buck's soft-soaping tone. JD was only convinced by the feeling of dread that had settled heavy as stone in his gut and which had nothing to do with his split face.

"Drink this, dang it." Buck's tone was a little less soft again now, like he was losing his composure.

JD let one mouthful in, then he pushed it away, leaned around the side of Buck once more.

His eyes lit on a lone figure propped against a hay-bale at the other side of the yard. It was Ezra, draped in a blanket, staring at nothing. He looked wretched. There was something frozen about him, unspeakably lost. JD's eyes turned to Buck in accusation.

Buck opened his mouth, struggled for words, shut his mouth again. His shoulders shrugged in a slump of weariness and defeat.

"It's done, it's over," Buck said.

JD's stomach rolled.

* * *

**Twenty Four Hours Earlier**

They arrived out of the hills and into Sharpeville same time as the afternoon mail coach. Encouraging their listless horses to one side of the trail, they sat and watched it tear past them, a frantic momentum of spinning wheels and flying dust. While toiling along the street into the center of town they saw it offload the pouches outside the telegraph office and then turn right around and career out again, like there was nothing on earth to keep it there.

"You sure about this?"

Vin's tone was dry, almost amused. He was the only one of the seven of them not about ready to fall out of the saddle and sleep where he landed.

"Nope."

Chris wasn't amused at all. Not a bit of it.

Sharpeville was nothing like Four Corners. That was plain from the moment the first buildings came in sight. Became plainer with each yard. Although good-sized, and built with a plan in mind, it looked like one of those towns with nothing going for it anymore. Something, somehow, had gone badly wrong. There was no burgeoning community here. No soft edges and splashes of color. No school or newspaper or bath-house. Seemed there was nothing to learn or enjoy in Sharpeville.

Place was downright gloomy. The streets were windblown and mostly bereft of more cheerful forms of life, save for the one small saloon from which came the sound of a lot of voices but no music. Kind of town with a lonely-looking Marshal's office set between vacant lots. Kind of town with a crib of tumbledown shanties at its outer reaches, away from plain view and full of girls in stained petticoats and corsets. About the only reason anyone might visit the place.

An oncoming storm rattled loose windows, sent clouds of grit skittering from one side of the street to the other. The sky above was slate-colored, bore down on them. Three days' ride from home, at least, and not even Vin wanted to camp out tonight. Sharpeville was the only other option.

"Just tonight, boys," Chris told them. They came to a halt at a row of hitching rails, eyed the peeling facades all along the street.

Chris, liking this town less and less the longer he looked at it, located the gunsmith's for oil and ammunition. Then he and JD went to find them all accommodation, dispatching the others to make themselves useful along the way.

Buck and Vin took charge of the horses and found the Livery under the charge of two old men who weren't pleased to see them, being more intent on arguing with each other. Ezra lounged about next door at the saddler waiting for his stirrup leathers to be re-stitched. Josiah and Nathan visited the dingy-looking Mercantile for what they hoped would be a last load of supplies before the roofs of Four Corners came into view. What they needed was to stock up on basics that wouldn't overload the packs - coffee, bacon, beef jerky, beans and hard tack. Cheap and traditional fare. The Sharpeville Mercantile didn't run much beyond basics so there would be no tough economic decisions to make. Last town they'd stopped, the General Store had displayed fresh bread in a big basket at the door. JD and Buck still hadn't gotten over the wonder of it, and the regret that they couldn't spare the money to purchase any.

"Well," said the clerk of the Hotel, looking at his empty register when JD came in to enquire, Chris trailing behind him, tired and quiet. "I do have a room. Yes. Cost ya two dollars and we'll feed ya for an extra dollar fifty. Fit four of you gents in there. Girls not allowed. You want girls, you go look for 'em on the Row. That's the best I can do."

"You full?"

"Nope, but we only got beds in that room."

Chris let JD tell everyone this news, allowed the ensuing conversation to wash over him like dust. Whatever the arguments at this stage, he already knew what would happen. Buck, JD, Nathan and Josiah would take the room. He and Vin would sleep undercover somewhere that smelled of horse and damp hay. Ezra would defy exhaustion and attempt to stay up all night in the saloon if he didn't get thrown out.

"Need to eat," Chris said when all the opinions and negotiations were out the way.

The hotel kitchen fed them as agreed, although if the standard of cooking was any measure of the hygiene and comfort of the beds, then it was Chris and Vin who'd be getting the good deal. Whether they'd just eaten goat, leather or centuries-old rooster wasn't clear.

"Need a drink," Chris said when he pushed his plate away.

Barkeep seemed overwhelmed when seven men carrying enough arms to start a small range-war came trudging into the nameless saloon. By the look on his face, he wasn't too enamored of the man in the gray shirt and long black duster who led them in, either. There was already an unwelcome crowd intimidating the regular patrons by their sheer number and demeanor, and then in the blink of an eye the place was full to the rafters and the atmosphere had become somewhat febrile.

"Whiskey. Seven glasses."

Chris thought it seemed pretty clear, even if he hadn't spoken. The barkeep almost hesitated but then obliged, looking flustered. He pushed over a bottle of Old Nash, color of hazelnuts and full to the top of the label, cork already removed. Lifted down seven glasses from a dusty shelf, one by one, and put them on the bar. Chris paid with a pocketful of coins, picked up the bottle and all seven glasses at the same time.

He dumped them with a clatter on one of two tables the others had pushed together in the corner. Sitting slowly in the seat that Vin shoved towards him with a boot, he watched Buck right the ones which had fallen and then pour. When all the glasses were full, Chris leaned forward. There was a raw expectancy in the air. Their journey, today and in the whole five months of their association, had been such that they were all ready for a toast. To something.

And they looked to him to provide it. Chris quirked a one-sided smile at the center of the table. Not even Sarah, in all her clear-sighted wisdom, would've pegged him for a leader of men.

"Boys," he said, although he knew he already had their attention. "To a safe way home."

The seven glasses chinked without a spill. Chris, Josiah and Ezra tipped back their shots in one, with Ezra seamlessly snagging the bottle for a refill before the liquor was hardly down his throat, flashing an aggravating smile at Chris soon as the glass left his lips. The others swallowed theirs in two gulps. Chris settled in the chair once more, crossed his arms, let the whiskey heat infuse in his chest and stomach, ran his tongue over his teeth.

The saloon in Sharpeville was Spartan to say the least, only a small improvement on some of the tents and lean-to's Chris had been unwise enough to stagger through in the last few years. There was a scratched, un-used upright piano in one corner masquerading as a pot-stand. The stool in front of it was piled with yellowed newspapers and hats. Dusty iron lamps on the ceiling swung gently in a draught. A film of fine sand crunched underfoot and JD had found himself a chair with one uneven leg.

Thank God they were all too tired to care.

Chris put his hand out towards the table and Vin slid a full glass towards him.

Too tired to speak.

After a while, the whiskey did its job. Buck and JD began to bother one another about something. Nathan and Josiah watched Ezra's trail-stiffened fingers loosen around a deck of cards. He wasn't looking to play, just to flip, and that was always entertaining.

Another large group didn't stop glancing over at them. Kept on drinking and smoking, cozying up to pair of grubby-looking percentage girls who were sitting on a table in their midst. Chris didn't like the look of them and he understood that Vin didn't either. But there was whiskey, and the seven of them needed to sit here together and drink it. They all seemed to feel that.

Until exhaustion and homesickness caught up to them, it had been a good trail. A neat job and Nathan's skills not required. They'd worked together like the well-oiled parts of a trusty machine. Chris had caught himself on more than one occasion feeling what he supposed was pride in the puzzling group of hopeless cases which had somehow fallen under his dominion. Hadn't stopped the usual verbal spats and fuss, mind. Hadn't stopped him worrying, either, about how Judge Travis and a temporary deputy would fare keeping the peace back home. They'd wired Four Corners with word of a job well done, waited for a response.

_Good STOP All quiet STOP Hon O Travis_

So, town hadn't gone to hell in a handcart then. Chris still wanted to get back soon as they could. Out of this place, where he couldn't be sure what might happen next.

It both amused and bothered him that the rest of his boys, Vin excepted, seemed oblivious of much beyond their table. They didn't look, they didn't seem interested. The odd atmosphere rolling off the dozen men at the bar wasn't attracting their attention even a little.

Too tired to care. Too glad to just be sitting here.

After a while, Vin tipped his chin. Chris went into an elbow lean to catch his words.

"I think I know him." Vin's eyes had strayed towards the bar and then back.

"Which one?"

"Feller in the frock coat."

Chris glanced over, casual. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. And you ain't gonna like it. That there's Matt Bracken."

Chris shut one eye. "Should I know that name?"

"Reckon you should. Things he's wanted for'd give you nightmares."

Chris kept his eye shut for a while while the name rolled around in his head, then he opened it again. "Mattie Bracken ... Mad Dog Mattie Bracken?"

Vin's face lit up with the pleasure of shared knowledge. "You got it."

Chris looked over at the man. "Hell, Vin. Not our town. Not our problem."

"My thoughts too, cowboy. On our way home. Don't need the trouble."

Chris kept his eyes on the group. Nine or ten of them. Maybe more. "They all runnin' with Bracken?"

Vin shrugged. "Looks that way."

Chris was quiet.

Bracken ... yup, once you'd seen him, he figured you wouldn't forget. He was tall and strong, oddly handsome at first glance, dressed in neat pants and a frock-coat the color of tobacco. His features were sharp and smooth, hair a thatch of gray and black tied at the nape of his neck in a tail. He had black eyebrows and un-nerving bright eyes that stared instead of looked.

All the tales and crimes associated with Mad Dog Mattie Bracken trickled through Chris's brain like so much salt water, almost made him flinch at the sting.

_Murder, rape, kidnap... butchery, sodomy, assault._

Hell no. Do not need the trouble.

"Beer," he heard Buck say.

Ezra was on his feet, wielding the empty bottle of Old Nash. "Gentlemen?"

"No need to turn this into a party, Buck," Chris said, pulling his attention reluctantly from Bracken and back to his boys, who he should have realized wouldn't stay quiet for long.

"One beer don't make a party." Buck sounded sour as vinegar. Chris knew that when he was weary enough, Buck would always let his guard down. Far as he was concerned, the week-long stage escort job was finished and he saw no reason not to relax. There was no helpful server, man or woman, to respond to his thirst, so Buck made a glass-tipping motion across the table.

"By all means." Ezra, several shots of Old Nash ahead of anyone else, was already hauling JD up by the elbow. His dark olive jacket was layered in trail-dust and dirt, the visible cuffs of his shirt now more gray than white and there was a rip across his vest from an encounter with a tree branch. Nevertheless, he didn't look like he belonged here at all. His very mannerisms, blunted as they were by weariness and long hours in the saddle, were enough to attract attention, before he even opened his mouth.

Chris moved his chair back so he could get a clear view. He saw Vin do the same thing. They watched JD and Ezra belly up to the bar.

A couple of the men moved aside, accommodating enough. One was even taller than Bracken, bull-necked, muscular and wide as a house. Another was maybe half Mexican, sallow-skinned and smoking a thick, stubby cigar. JD acknowledged them. Ezra too. Vin and Chris exchanged a look.

_Nice and polite, boys, that's the way._

Bracken leaned sideways to get a look at the newcomers. He didn't say anything, but he looked long. Chris could see him taking in every inch of the two with fixed, unblinking eyes that traveled slowly up and down JD, examined Ezra from his boots to his hair. JD didn't seem to notice, just went on prattling to get the attention of the barkeep. Ezra shifted in discomfort, feeling the gaze. It didn't surprise Chris that he turned slightly, gave a quick glance at the gun hanging on the hip of the nearest man.

Vin caught Chris's eye again just as Bracken pushed himself up from his position at the end of the bar and moved casually towards JD.

"Hell, what's a man gotta do to get a beer around here, huh?" Bracken said, his voice carrying right across the saloon. He clapped a hand on the back of JD's shoulder, pinched a handful of muscle.

"I think this fine youngster would like to be served," added the sallow-faced man in a thick accent, nudging JD and winking. JD moved and Ezra took a step down the bar to give him room. Since Matt Bracken still had a hand to his shoulder, JD couldn't take much advantage. Chris saw him give a slight shrug to get free. Several thoughts went through his head.

_Stay calm, kid._

_Buck, don't look up._

_Keep ya mouth shut, Ezra._

Ezra turned around, let his gun-belt and holster peek from his jacket, settled his right arm loosely in front of him. Bracken let his eyes stray to Ezra's side-arm. He clapped JD on the back again, removed the hand with a grin.

"See, youngster, all it needs is your nice smile and Timmy here'll do whatever you ask."

Bracken's shoulders shook in a silent laugh. Two beers and a second bottle of Old Nash about half-full had been plumped down in front of JD by Timmy the barkeep. Bracken was still standing right behind, close enough that JD couldn't move. Ezra twisted behind him to pick up the bottle, slap down some coinage. He faced outwards again, pushed up from the bar. The stance was fluid, the side-gun still visible. He and JD both looked slight and insubstantial compared to Bracken and the big lug next to him. Ezra was dripping his own brand of entirely-convincing confidence, though. Enough to earn him a fat lip. Or some grudging respect.

"Our compatriots are thirsty," he said directly to Bracken. "So if you gentlemen would be kind enough to excuse us?" His accent rang clear and true, told everyone within earshot he hailed from deep south. Ezra could put a cap on it if he wanted, and he plainly didn't want.

Bracken took a half step backwards, freeing JD just enough to sidle past him, the two beer mugs slopping in his nervousness. Ezra made a move to follow, found his way blocked.

"Just wonderin'," Bracken said. "What a downright fancy gent like yourself's doin' in a tin-pot shit-hole like this?"

"Merely passing through."

"And your fine boy?"

Ezra's face betrayed nothing. His body language betrayed nothing. His eyes were blank and cool, non-reactive.

"Is his own man, suh."

Bracken moved his head, kept his eyes on Ezra, like he couldn't drag them away. Then he leaned in, keeping his head to one side. Spoke low, so low that Chris couldn't make out what he said. There was the merest stiffening of Ezra's shoulders in reaction, nothing more. The lack of anything else seemed to perplex Bracken, made him lean away. Then Ezra nudged JD with an elbow to make him keep moving, back towards the relative safety of their corner.

"Everything all right?" Chris said as soon as JD, flushed to his hairline, set down the beers and slid into his seat.

"'m OK," JD mumbled.

"Ezra?"

The cool look vanished from Ezra's eyes when he heard the question. A familiar, slightly-embarrassed grin settled on his face.

"Nothing to alarm you, Mr. Larabee."

"What'd he say?" Chris pursued.

Ezra, still with enough wits about him to be well-mannered, filled all the glasses in turn before he supplied his own. "Oh he disparaged me, as you might expect."

"What'd he say?" Chris wasn't quite sure why he was so desperate to know. Something about the way Ezra had reacted made him uneasy.

Ezra's grin faded and he looked stubborn instead. "It is not worth repetition. His words were vile, I can assure you, but they were just words."

What, Ezra? What?

"You know who that is?"

"An imbecile?"

Chris bit down on his frustration. "That's Mattie Bracken."

Buck popped out of his beer mug. "Mattie Bracken?" he echoed, keeping his voice down. "Mad Dog Mattie Bracken? How'd you know?"

"Vin recognized him."

Ezra looked unimpressed. "And who, may I ask, is this canine celebrity?"

"No, you may not ask, not in here, not right now." Chris was terse. "You all just need to know that he's not our problem and we're leaving at first light."

"Well Amen to that, brother," Josiah murmured. "This town is not our kind of town."

"The beer is shit," Buck agreed.

"And the whisky's watered down," Chris said. "So if you boys have had enough, I think it's time we hit the hay."

Ezra looked thoughtfully at the quarter-bottle of Old Nash.

"You're not takin' that to bed with you," Chris warned him.

"If you remember, I do not at present have a bed."

"Hell, take my spot. I'll bunk down with Chris and Vin." Buck polished off his beer, wiped his moustache. Yes, he was weary all right.

"That means sleeping on a flea-ridden mattress with Mr. Dunne." As sure as death, Ezra would always find grounds for complaint.

"You've had worse breaks," Nathan stated, rising to his feet.

"'sides," added Vin, "you won't get any sleep, not with Josiah in there snorin' fit to shake the walls." He smirked as he said it, made the others grin in recognition of dire nights with their fingers in their ears, and it broke the tension a little.

Their departure was attracting attention. Bracken's group made sure they all turned around to give Larabee and his men an audience on their way out of the saloon. They were starting to spread themselves around the place now, taking over tables. They weren't drunk, but there was something off-balance in their gait and something over-heated in their eyes. Without saying a word, Chris and Vin positioned themselves like a pair of sheep-dogs either side of JD and Ezra, though it didn't stop Bracken moving so he could keep them in his sight.

"What's their problem?" Buck seemed suddenly more awake. "And what's your problem?" he added, looking askance at JD who was pulling his hat brim down low over his eyes.

"Just keep walking."

A whiskered, bald-pated gent sitting right by the batwings watched them all the way out, too. He came pattering after them down the steps to the street, said to Chris, "You're doin' the right thing by leavin'. Don't want to give 'em a chance to start somethin'."

Chris stopped momentarily. "You know who they are?"

"You kiddin' me, mister? We call 'em the Dogs. Always sniffin' around pissin' on things." The man went up on his toes, peered back through the batwings. "Nando Camino with the cheroot, Matt Bracken in the coat, Link Chain the big feller. Them and their pack've bin coming and going a coupla months now. Hell yeah. They're bad boys - need endin'."

"Marshal know they're here tonight?" Vin asked.

"Marshal knows. He ain't stupid enough to take 'em on." The man gave Chris a sudden up-and-down look, brightened a little. "You stupid enough?"

"Nah we're not stupid enough."

"Well which way you headed? Cos Camino's got 'em camped out at the old water-mill north of town."

"South," Chris said.

The bald-pated gent looked sly, glanced back up the steps at the saloon. Then he shrugged. "Prob'ly time I was gettin' home."

"Seems best."

Chris watched the man trotting off down the street. A part of him felt bad, because hell ... this town needed a leg up. Most of him, though, just didn't need the trouble. He needed to get his boys home safe and sound. Nevertheless, eyes still trained on the figure disappearing into the gloom, he hesitated. The others were yawning at his back, waiting, more than a little pissed that their leader couldn't seem to let this thing go ... whatever this thing was.

He swung around to them.

"What'd Bracken say to you, Ezra? He threaten you?"

Ezra didn't answer.

"He threaten JD?"

Ezra slouched on his hip, looked pointedly towards the hotel like he was waiting for something to finish before he could be on his way.

"You're gonna tell me in the end, Ezra. Might as well make it easy."

"Like I said, Mr. Larabee, it doesn't bear repetition. That's all you need to know. And now, can we please be dismissed? I believe you said something about leaving at first light?"

Chris felt a nudge in his back. It was Vin, telling him to drop it.


	2. Chapter 2

_O ye brave knights, that boast this Ladies love,_

_where be ye now, when she is nigh defild_

_of filthy wretch?_

~Spenser, The Faerie Queene, III, viii, 27

* * *

A screaming rose in the center of Sharpeville an hour before dawn.

It was a high-pitched sound, redolent of outrage and fear. Even though it came from a street away or more, Chris sat up out of the straw in which he'd been deeply asleep, nearly banged his head on the corner of a beam.

"What in hell?"

Buck, head down somewhere near Chris's feet, cracked an eye but didn't move.

Vin's blanket came off and disappeared over the edge of the platform where they'd camped out above the horses. Chris heard both his hands clap round the rifle even as he was reaching for his own boots. Vin slid to the edge, levered himself over and dropped to the ground one-handed, quick and agile. Chris followed him down, taking a bruising route via a ladder, most of which he didn't think he touched even though he was trying.

The ruckus hadn't disturbed the great and good of Sharpeville. The only life to be seen on the street was a small group outside the lit Marshal's office. There were three women, half-dressed and wrapped in shawls, and a suited man who evidently wasn't the Marshal.

As Chris and Vin drew near they could see Josiah striding towards them down the dismal street from the direction of the hotel.

"Took one of my girls!" the suited man bellowed at nobody in particular. "One of my girls!" He glared at Chris as he came within clear view. "One of my customers too, one of my goddamn customers!" Every word was shouted, causing a sash window to bang up across the street and an answering yell of, "Keep ya goddamn noise down, folks tryin' to sleep here!"

"Who took 'em?" Chris's voice was measured, didn't carry any farther than the two men nearest.

"That dirty Mexican dog and his goddamn dirty bandits. Came right in and snatched one of my girls!"

Buck had made it now, still bleary and with straw in his hair. He roved a keen glance at the women, gave the suited man a narrow look.

"Good to know your girls are well-protected."

The man scowled at him furiously. "You try protecting business 'gainst Camino and Bracken."

"They'll kill her, Mr. Wyles!" one of the women said in a choked voice. "You know it … they'll kill Doreen and lord she's only a baby."

"What the hell they take 'em for?"

Wyles, the suited man, sent Vin a withering glance, spoke with some scorn. "'Cause he's got money and they don't want to pay?"

"I get why they took Doreen." Buck was picking at his hair, yawning. "But why the john? Why not just take his money?"

"They're dogs," Wyles said simply, and he spat to emphasize the point. "Wild dogs. Knowing them, they want him same reason they want her."

"Hell." Buck slapped his hat against his leg, jammed it on his head. "Mattie Bracken'll take what he can get. I heard that."

"Was Bracken here?"

At Chris's question, Wyles swung round on another of the women who was scrubbing the back of her hand across her nose, shivering with the early cold.

"Rose?"

"It was Camino that came into Doreen's, I heard his voice." The woman shrugged. "A couple of the others, dunno which ones. I didn't see Bracken."

"Been to the Marshal?"

The woman Rose rolled her eyes to the dark sky above but let her employer answer.

"Marshal's out at Mrs. Carter's place, on business." Wyles sucked in his cheeks, looked at the ground. "Personal business."

"How far?"

"Mile or so."

Chris frowned. This was not their problem.

"And this water-mill?"

"Hour maybe."

"How many of 'em?"

"Twelve when they're all together. And they got plenty of guns."

Well, damn. There were always plenty of guns.

"Chris?" Buck sounded uneasy, clearly didn't like what was coming.

"Go roust out the others, get on out to this mill." Chris squared his shoulders, looked into Buck's expectant face. "I didn't say take 'em on, all right? Just go set up a watch, see what we're up against." He flicked his gaze at Vin and Josiah. "We'll ride for the Marshal." Before he moved, Chris laid a gripping hand on Buck's forearm. "And I damn well mean it about not takin' 'em on."

"What if they take us on?"

"You're not gonna get that close. And you're gonna wait for us. We're not the law around here, Marshal is. You make sure JD understands that."

Buck nodded mutely.

"Ya might need this," Vin said to him. He reached into the deep pocket at the hem of his buckskin jacket, extracted his brass spyglass. Buck held out his hand and caught the little cylinder when Vin tossed it. He looked at it in his hand, made a face. They all knew that when Vin Tanner's spyglass was doing the rounds, there was real trouble afoot.

Chris wanted to repeat the warning but he decided not to.

"Tell me I'm doin' the right thing," he muttered to Vin and Josiah when Buck had begun a rangy sprint back towards the hotel.

"They'll be fine." Josiah's answer, an early-morning rumble, was hard to interpret. Not exactly confident. But not exactly the opposite either.

"Wing and a goddamn prayer." Chris could never help doubting his comrades' willingness to blindly follow his orders. Who the hell was he to oblige them, after all?

Vin made a face, shook his head. "Ain't it always?" he said. "Hell an' it's even worse than that. This shit you're gettin' us into is a wing and a goddamn prayer without coffee."

"This town?" Chris said as the three of them reached the Livery. "I hate it."

* * *

Buck found the hotel clerk peering through the shutters downstairs. Whatever the trouble was, the man wasn't about to let anyone leave without paying.

"They did what?" Ezra asked sluggishly when he was poked awake.

"JD's friends from last night. Seems like they stole one of the girls from the Row. Took her john too. We're ridin' out after 'em."

"They did what?" Ezra repeated, nevertheless tipping himself from the side of the bed which was bouncing furiously as JD sat on it to haul on his boots. He stood blinking in the center of the room like he was trying to imagine himself anywhere but in a strange hotel room in his long-johns.

"Just git a move on, Ezra, 'stead of standing there lookin' like the goddamn cat ate ya canary."

Nathan, disturbed by Josiah, was set to leave already.

"I thought they weren't our problem."

Buck picked up Ezra's conversion in its holster and threw it at him, surprised when it was caught smartly.

"Chris just made it our problem. Marshal's being fetched but we gotta go on ahead, see what's going on."

"How delightful," said Ezra, slipping a semi-clean shirt off a hanger and studying it like he was inwardly praying for its continued survival. "Reconnaissance before breakfast, my favorite kind."

"Yeah," JD added, throwing Buck a dirty look. "And they're not my friends."

The others were already gone when they reached the Livery. They found an escort of Wyles and a group of his girls, pale-faced and anxious, waiting to direct them out of town. Buck led them into the evaporating dark, JD at his side, the other two just behind. Now they were on the move, had a focus, there were no more complaints.

From the outskirts of Sharpeville, heading due north, it took less than an hour to reach a sight of the water-mill in the first light of day.

The place was nothing more than a heap of abandoned buildings piled in a dusty valley, overlooked by a tree-lined ridge on one side and a rocky trail on the other. A fair enough spot to settle when things were going well, perhaps. Past the small settlement crawled a wide, shallow river that was clearly flowing too slowly and too low to be worth harnessing anymore. At least just here. The water picked up speed as it traveled further down past the trail. Even at a distance it could be heard gurgling over rocks. Some work would have salvaged the mill, Buck guessed, but Sharpeville wasn't the kind of place to find the motivation.

On his command, the four of them circled around the head of the valley, found a high observation point and dismounted to set up watch. Below them there was little movement. Aside from the listing mill-wheel itself, there were several broken-down outhouses, a shack with half a roof, a big barn-like structure and a small corral with a jumbled perimeter fashioned out of whatever bits of timber the gang had managed to break up. The horses were tethered in groups - Buck counted eight of them - and there was one figure on the ground in the middle of the yard.

Buck sprawled on his belly, aimed Vin's spyglass. He felt JD kick the back of his boot.

"What can you see, Buck? You even got that thing the right way round?"

"One man down," Buck grunted. "He's movin'. Reckon that's Doreen's john. Can't see her. And I count five of Camino's men."

He rolled off his elbows, passed the spyglass to Nathan who'd shimmied in next to him. Ezra had clearly decided he wasn't about to wallow in the dust and he stood back by the horses, checking his guns.

"Two more in the barn," Nathan said after a while.

Camino's men were moving about, in and out of the buildings.

"Still only seven."

"The guy hurt?" JD asked. "Shouldn't we go help him?"

"You heard the orders, JD. Chris said not to take 'em on."

"I know he did, Buck, but ..."

"Think he's been roughed up," Nathan interrupted. "He ain't shot far as I can see."

"Where the hell is Doreen?"

"Maybe they took her someplace else. There's five of 'em missing I reckon."

"What are we doing again?" Ezra demanded. "Elementary calculus? You realize no-one's going to pay us for hanging around here counting thieves?"

"Reckon we'll do something when Chris gets here with the Marshal."

Buck nodded at that. "Whether he gets a fire lit under the Marshal or not, reckon on them being here 'fore the hour's out."

"Not too long to sit on your desire for mayhem, JD."

JD turned to answer Ezra's observation with a frown. "I don't have no desire. Just don't want anyone gettin' hurt that don't deserve it."

"Those men," Ezra said, peering into the barrel of his Remington. "They've done plenty to deserve it."

Buck twisted round at the tone in Ezra's voice. "Don't you start. Two of ya, just keep calm and sit tight."

"I don't have no desire for mayhem, Buck." JD was a little plaintive, probably because he was tired. Buck wondered how he'd slept following the encounter in the saloon.

"None of us do, kid. Pay him no mind, Ezra's fulla shit."

Ezra gave his Remington a sardonic wave. Before he could say anything else, Nathan's head jerked back.

"Damn," he said, at the same moment they heard the sound of a woman's voice wailing.

"Nathan?"

"They're bringing her out. Don't look good."

Buck crawled to his feet, hand in the middle of Nathan's back. "Least she's alive."

Another wail sounded, bouncing up and off the surrounding rocks. With the naked eye they could see the figure on the ground stir, trying to get up. A scream and then a shot rent the air.

"Oh shit ..." Nathan scrambled up, slapped the spyglass back in Buck's hand.

"They kill someone?"

"Think they're in the mood for it."

"Damn this," Ezra muttered and turned to his horse.

"Yeah," Buck agreed, right beside him. He stowed the spyglass hastily, knowing it was more than his life was worth to allow it to be lost or damaged. "I'm calling off the watch."

Larabee himself couldn't have stopped them.

The men holed up at the mill scattered for cover the second they heard the shots. Whatever they were planning fell apart as soon as approaching horses burst out of the trees at the foot of the rise. By the time Larabee's four were down in the valley and exposed, riding full tilt and firing for distraction rather than effect, the whole situation had changed.

Buck aimed a shot towards two men holding down Doreen where she lay sprawled in the dust with her dress sliced up to the waist. The bullet skimmed the ground inches from their feet. The men immediately released the girl, scrabbled their way into an untidy dive behind a water-trough.

Ezra and Nathan leaped to the ground, slapping away their horses and running for an abandoned buggy overturned outside the barn, shooting as they went. They gave Buck enough cover to get to Doreen, who squealed when he reached her. She had a black eye and her hair was loose and full of dirt. Buck could swear she was no more than sixteen years old. The man who'd paid eight bits to visit her was bent double on his side, hand clutching a wound on his thigh which was bleeding fast.

Buck pulled the girl off the ground with one arm. It was easy. She was too cold and stiff to help much, but she was light, a bag of bones. He threw her on to his horse, snatching his rifle from the saddle-boot soon as she was up. His grab at the swinging reins made the animal wheel and whinny, kick up earth.

"Keep your head down!" Buck urged. "Get the hell away from here now, darlin'. Marshal's right behind us."

The horse took flight amidst a hail of gunfire echoing from either side of the yard. It wasn't aimed at Buck's mount else Doreen would have died in the saddle. She showed enough presence of mind to understand that the unknown flurry of gunmen who had appeared from nowhere were holding down Camino's bastard pack of hounds at her back. Somehow she had the strength to dig her knees into the horseflesh beneath her, sent the animal kicking into the trees towards the rise.

JD heard shots from behind, had his own mount taken right from under him in a skid of hooves as five riders came in on their flank. He rolled away from the panicking animal, kept rolling, heard the distinctive sound of Buck's Colt, knew it had a good chance of keeping him safe, for a few seconds at least. Then incoming fire increased. A voice hollered at him to keep still. JD froze where he was, halfway to the buggy. His horse had righted itself, was charging for open ground.

Several rounds cannoned off the buggy, made it rock. Much more of that and it would be torn to pieces.

"Give it up!" an accented voice shouted across the gunfire. "Give it up and drop your weapons."

JD was blinded by a shaft of sunlight and his own fuddled senses.

"Well look who it is!" The long shadow of Matt Bracken blocked the sun for a second before he slid from his horse, pointed his gun at JD supine in the dust. "Our fine young feller and his keepers."

"Drop your weapons," repeated the first voice. Camino rode up front of the incoming group.

Buck glanced quickly left and right. There were guns trained on them every which way. They were outnumbered three to one. On seeing JD stranded, Nathan and Ezra had stood up slowly behind the buggy.

"He said drop your weapons." Bracken sounded exasperated. "We ain't jokin'."

Buck realized the others were taking their cues from him. He let his side-arm dangle on one finger, fall to the ground, nodded unwillingly.

In a moment more they were all standing, disarmed, hands raised. Although there had been occasions when Ezra's multiple hardware had given them the upper hand, this was not one of those times. Camino himself had spotted the shoulder holster. The olive jacket was peeled from Ezra's arms and the conversion and rig were removed, none too politely. They made him take off the torn brocade vest too, liking the look of the pin in one lapel. Camino took charge of it, tearing off the pin and then scrunching the stiff material of the vest in his fingers before holding the item towards his men and dropping it.

"Didn't know Chris Larabee rode with a fuckin' tailor's dummy," he said, to a wave of snickering.

Buck and Nathan exchanged the most fleeting of glances. There had been no sign last night that Camino or any of his gang had recognized Larabee. Buck couldn't decide if the recognition was likely to help or not. He guessed not.

Ezra seemed on the verge of opening his mouth. Buck hoped he wasn't going to make some comment along the lines of if they weren't interested in his clothes, this tailor's dummy would like them back thank you very much. Evidently something in Camino's expression stopped him making any comment at all. He just looked at the discarded vest and jacket rather sorrowfully.

A few feet away from them, the man on the ground rolled his head and groaned. Nathan made a half move to get to him and then backed off as a shotgun swung in his direction.

"Awww," Bracken said. "They came to the rescue."

"Where's Larabee?" Camino asked, face to face with Buck.

"Town."

"Oh yes?"

"Oh yes."

"You're lying."

Buck just stared at him.

"They thought they could take us!" Bracken was walking around them, gun waving dangerously. "Cowpunch with half a brain, a snot-nosed kid, a goddamn darkie and a Southern boy too pretty for his own face. Ain't that just too much?"

"Crowded round here, Mattie," Camino said.

"Hell yeah." Bracken span, cocked his gun and then fired at the man on the ground. A casual, close-range shot, let loose without a second thought.

The man's body jerked until the echo died away, and then went still. Both Nathan and JD flinched. Ezra and Buck were unmoving, although not unmoved. They'd been expecting it.

"You let her get away!" Camino scolded the other men, as if nothing had happened. "Before we'd even gotten started? Pendejos ... what the hell you drag her out here for? Look what you brought."

"Ain't so bad, Nando." Bracken was still on the move, patrolling around the prisoners with renewed interest. "They could be useful."

"Useful how? Bringing that gunslinger down on us?"

"I can think of something."

Camino bit the end of his cheroot hard. Spat. "Tie 'em up and let 'em stew. Reef!" He snapped his head sideways to a man with a few yellow teeth gnawing his lower lip. "Go find the kid's horse. And before we clear out we need ... shit, we need a fuckin' drink."

Buck couldn't help thinking his words were a shorthand for something else.

Bracken grinned. "Boys are kinda pissed their fun just rode away, bossman."

"Well they hafta fuckin' deal with it." Camino slapped a man in a duster and gloves on the side of the arm. "You and Tom, any sign of heroes riding down, you fill this bunch of madres full of lead." He spoke directly to Buck on his way into the shack. "I'll do it anyhow, Americano, unless Mattie gives me a good reason not to."

As Camino walked away, Bracken smiled after him as if he were the most pleasant man he'd ever met. Buck had never liked people who smiled all damn day long. Most of them deserved to have the smile slapped right off their faces, far as he could tell. Bracken, though, he was something else. He crackled with self-assurance, made Buck wonder why he wasn't in charge and Nando Camino was. There were a few stains on the tobacco frock-coat but none of the splashes of food and filth that adorned the others. Bracken seemed to like his debauchery well controlled. His hair looked combed, was neatly restrained in a black ribbon whose ends flapped as he walked around.

He oversaw operations with the big bear of a man they'd heard called Link Chain. Chain was hellish powerful, stank of nicotine and stale sweat.

"She got away," JD muttered to Buck as they were herded into the barn.

It was some kind of justification for why they'd ridden into this mess in the first place.

Shit. Five lives for one percentage girl.

When he was on his knees with his hands tied up tight behind his back, Buck's eyes strayed to what he could see of the trees on the rise through the open barn doors. Could be that everything would turn out right, that they'd still have the safe way home they'd drunk to last night. Could be that the others were real close. That Vin and Chris would think things through real logical, know enough not to come galloping in at the wrong time and get them all shot.

Could be.

He looked up at the men guarding them. Both wore dusters, held sawn-offs and had cold eyes half hidden under the rim of their hats. They were tense. Just looking for an excuse. Buck nudged JD who was next to him.

"Take it easy."

"I am taking it easy, Buck. I can't do anything the hell else 'cept take it easy."

"Keep ya goddamn trap shut!" one of the men snapped.

Nathan, on the other side of JD, nudged him too. He didn't say anything.

Buck strained his ears to hear what was going on in the shack. He had a pretty good idea. There were voices floating out across the yard. Voices pitched on the wild scale. He had a crawling feeling in his stomach which overlaid the gnawing hunger he'd been thinking about five minutes ago.

Camino and his men were drinking, that was plain enough. Had the constitutions for early-morning liquor. But there was more than that. There was something else going on with them, taking the edge off any inhibitions that might be left. Were they smoking something along with the raw hooch they all reeked of? Sniffing the kind of noxious fumes that blurred boundaries?

Whatever it was, Buck figured they had nothing left to lose. Figured they'd kill the four of them all right, just not straight away.

_Well, hell._

This depressing notion seemed to fit in with everything he already knew.

Matthew Bracken was a natural born killer, that was clear. He'd trashed his moral compass, supposing he'd ever had one, years ago. Went awol from the 2nd California, skipped out of Fort Grant one night bold as brass, had been living on the twilit fringes ever since. He was bankrolled from somewhere unknown, had to be. Straight criminality didn't interest him, although he'd spent time behind bars for it. He preferred to hound people and dabble in depravity. Had a reputation for living on little but brain-rotting liquors and tainted tobacco. And now he'd found others, fresh from jail or riding to escape it, who'd do the same because they likely had nothing to live for.

_Butchery, sodomy, assault._

That was what Chris had said.

The memory of Bracken's proximity to JD last night in the saloon made Buck's heart thump painfully in his throat. He shifted his knees, had a meandering thought about how far behind the others might be.

_Now would be a good time, boys._


	3. Chapter 3

_Fear and courage are brothers_ ~Proverb

* * *

The way Camino and his men swaggered back into view rang frantic alarm-bells in Nathan's head.

For half an hour or more, Larabee's captured scouts had been on their knees in the barn. All this time, the two men left guarding them had said nothing. Not one word. Every so often one of them had edged a little closer. A gun had been extended once towards JD's head, just to get a reaction. Occasionally their eyes might have strayed towards the shack, just visible across the yard outside the doors. Never long enough to give their prisoners a chance to do anything about it, though.

Then the others had started to come back and Nathan could feel his gorge rising with every noisy step closer they took. Soon as they appeared he felt a cold sweat break out all over him.

He'd seen men look like this before.

That fizzing, hungry snap to their eyes, the way they'd hold themselves like they were desperate to do something, twitch a little like they were equally desperate not to. Men that looked like they'd been on the road and on the run so long their world had skewed.

Only Camino and Bracken walked right into the barn. The others dropped back, leaned on the doors or slouched just outside. A couple of them were quivering with some kind of nervous tension. Hard to tell if it was terror, excitement or the trappings of addiction. Reef, the ugly guy with the yellow teeth, and Link Chain, took a step inside and then hovered, waiting for orders.

Bracken seemed eager for something. Didn't look at all like he'd been up all night drinking and smoking and threatening people. There was an exuberance about him almost impossible not to watch in dreadful fascination.

"Which one?" he asked, bouncing lightly on his toes.

Nathan turned his head slightly and Buck mouthed a single, angry shit.

"You gonna choose, Nando, or you gonna let me?" Bracken strolled up the line, trying to make eye contact. He and Camino didn't seem so much on edge as the others. They were fired-up for sure, but maybe didn't have as much liquor in them. More insanity, maybe, but not as much liquor. Both seemed focused, somehow, like they had their eyes on the prize.

Nathan was even more disturbed by that.

Camino stood still, just looked at the four prisoners. He hefted a shotgun in his hands, then shrugged, manipulated his cheroot with his lips so he could speak.

"The kid. He'll have soft skin. He'll cry like a girl."

"You ... god_ damn_ you!" Buck choked out, although, to Nathan's relief, he stayed down on his knees.

Camino shook his head reprovingly, as if Buck were a wayward child. His eyes flickered between the four of them, came back to rest on JD. Then he shrugged, cocked his head at Bracken.

"Time to have your piece of ass, Mattie. Need to move on." He wagged his scattergun at Buck. "And you need to stay still and shut your mouth."

Bracken beckoned Chain and they came behind the line and hauled JD on to his feet between them. Camino and the guards kept their guns close, each aiming square at the three on their knees. Nathan could feel Buck shaking with the effort not to move and his only thought was God's sake, Buck, don't get us all shot, not so damn soon.

JD began to babble, tried to drag himself down, out of their clutches.

What was desperately needed right now was stalling tactics. Hellish good ones, too. Nathan's mind went blank but then he felt a giddy jolt of relief when Ezra suddenly spoke up, casual and clear.

"Skin like a dead fish, I can assure you. And he won't make a sound."

Nathan's relief faded. His heart began to pound rapidly instead.

"You can ashore us?" Bracken honked in delight. "Well lookee here ..." He and Chain exchanged grinning looks, abruptly dropped JD back on to his knees. They both walked behind him. Link Chain stopped at Nathan's back and Bracken kept going, walked right round until he was in front of Ezra. "Sounds like the pretty Southern boy knows what he's talking about."

Chain just laughed. It was the deep, crackling laugh of a man whose lungs were full to the brim with tar. He stank to high heaven, enough to make Nathan want to gag.

"Fer fuck's sake, just bring one of 'em, I can't wait much longer!" came from the other side of the barn.

Bracken flicked Ezra's hat off and it rolled across the earth and sawdust floor. Then he bent down and took a long look at him, breathing in and out slowly. Ezra inclined his head back a little but didn't drop his eyes.

Camino shifted, chewed. "I don't know, Mattie. Kid looks just right to me. Looked just right last night, looks just right now." He swiped the cheroot from his mouth, used it to point at Nathan. "Or maybe you got a taste for the dark meat?"

Nathan felt the sweat prickle down his back, and a cramp of fear like he hadn't known for years. He could hear Chain's heavy breath sounds, was braced for the feel of massive hands closing around his arms. Bracken's eyes wandered to his, brightening with the gleam of a new idea.

"I doubt you sorry yahoos can even get it up, frankly." Ezra's drawl suggested no fear, only boredom. He spoke with the slightest lilt of a taunt. It had the effect of dragging attention back on him straight away. Nathan felt his heart squeeze. He pressed himself into Ezra's side, head bent.

"No," he said softly, even though the alternative was just as awful, "don't do this ... Ezra, don't you do this."

Bracken glanced back at him, irritated now, and Nathan felt a plunging resignation that, despite the last few years, nothing had changed after all because he, of course, was going to be the sacrificial lamb. Ezra stubbornly took the floor again, no hesitation.

"Really," he said, "You best at least pick someone who can make it good."

Bracken looked away from Nathan again. He shook his head, almost in admiration this time, and stuck the barrel of his gun right under Ezra's chin. "You are gonna wish to God you never said that." The look on his face told Nathan he'd settled on his choice all right. "I told you what I'd do, dittnt I? I told you last night. Now we just gonna hafta use you so hard and so mean. Oh, pretty, you gonna wish you never said that."

Ezra jerked his head away. "Do feel free to go fuck yourself, you ignorant piece of shit."

It was the contemptuous tone that had gotten him smacked to the ground on more than one occasion. The tone that could drive Larabee wild, whether he was on the end of it or not. Usually, Ezra just didn't seem able to help himself, but right now that wasn't the case. Nathan felt a terrible certainty that Ezra knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly how to make these men react, how to get JD and Nathan off the hook, how to get himself on it - if that was what it took.

"_Puto_ ... " Camino stepped forward, wagging his head in disbelief. "You and your smart mouth. Just gave out a gilt-edged invitation." His impassive, bloodshot gaze swung to Bracken and Chain. "Forget the kid. Let's see if this one can take it like he says." He gestured at them to get on with it and then watched as they hauled Ezra to his feet and began to drag him towards the open doors.

The other men, seeing their victim coming, backed off into a loose ring, starting to whistle, throwing insults and encouragement back and forth across the group. Some of them were already tugging at their pants with addled hands, struggling to get at least one of their boots off.

"Oh shit," said JD in dawning horror. "Oh shit oh shit."

"Where the hell are they?" Panic rose in Buck's voice, like he just couldn't believe they'd found themselves in this unholy mess, couldn't believe it was slithering out of their control so fast. "Jesus Christ, Nathan, where the hell are they? They need to get here, they need to get here now."

The Cavalry, charging over the horizon in a billowing storm of dust. Larabee, Tanner and Sanchez, all guns blazing, just in the nick of goddamned time.

"They'll be here."

Nathan didn't know if he believed it, but since positively the only thing they could do at this point was remain calm, it was the best he could manage.

All eyes had followed Ezra out of the barn.

They let go of him next to the abandoned buggy. For a few seconds Nathan wondered if he was going to make a break for it. He struggled for balance, then stood in a wary half-crouch, trying to keep every one of the enemy in his sight.

One of the men laughed, made a feint towards him. As Ezra took avoiding action, another came in behind, knocked him swiftly off his feet with a kick in the side of the leg. Since his arms were secured, there was nothing to stop the fall and Nathan flinched at the sound of a chin and forehead impacting the ground.

Immediately, Bracken and Reef sprang like a pair of coyotes. It was easy enough to pin a stunned, bound man with their combined weight. Link Chain more or less sat on him while Bracken wrestled off his boots and pants, tossed them aside. Using both hands, Bracken ripped the fine fabric of Ezra's shirt in two right up to the collar. The sound was distinct and shocking on the clear air.

The two men weren't expecting resistance, any more than Nathan and Buck were, especially after the fall. After having lain quite still for a few seconds, an unexpected burst of muscular strength propelled Ezra back to his knees and then his feet. Nathan didn't know whether he was glad or fearful to see it. The move clearly surprised the hell out of Bracken and Chain, which was briefly satisfying and made Buck nod furiously, but the futility of the wild shoulder-charge Ezra attempted was immediately obvious. All it accomplished was to make everyone more excitable. Bracken hit Ezra hard in the face and he staggered. A couple more of the men, shouting and shoving each other, brought him down again with a crash.

"Hoss," Buck moaned out loud. "Damnit, _damnit_."

"Keep'm quiet for Christ's sake, Reef!"

"I'm tryin' but he's a fuckin' slippery little bastard!"

There was a cloud of dust, a spray of buttons and then they kicked Ezra over on to his stomach again. Bracken kept him down with a boot to the back of the neck.

Reef and Chain had tipped an empty barrel on its side, were rolling it towards the buggy with their feet. Camino just stalked around like a turkey cock looking damn pleased with himself.

Although he couldn't see everything, Nathan certainly knew the sound of metal snapping shut twice in quick succession, once around an ankle, once around the rusted wheel-spokes of the disused buggy.

As if there was any hope of Ezra being able to escape anyway.

A goddamn leg-iron. The sound transported Nathan away from the mill barn for a long moment, returned him dizzy and breathless.

"Hell," said Buck, bringing him right back to earth. He was starting to pant noisily as if he was running a race. "Hell. Where are they, Nathan? Where are they?"

"They'll be here," Nathan said again under his breath. A sizable part of him still believed it. The part that had made him walk right out of the cemetery in Four Corners, moments after he'd nearly died on the end of a rope, and follow Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner into the saloon.

Another of the men had produced a knife. For one horrifying moment Nathan thought they were fixing to slaughter Ezra on the spot in some kind of ritual execution. It wouldn't be the first time these men had done such a thing. He felt himself nearly white out in fear and then came the snick-snick sound of metal slicing through fabric. Buck took two deep breaths. He leaned right against JD so Nathan practically heard their heads knock together.

"Don't you look, and don't you listen ... hear me? Hear me, JD? Don't listen to it. I'm goin' to keep talking and you just listen to me."

"Shit, Buck, shit. I can't! I can't stand it."

"Do as I say, JD, for the love of God, do as I say."

The two men guarding them just continued to stare. Months of riding with Camino and Bracken had rendered them simultaneously hyper-aware and expressionless. Nothing of what they were watching outside the barn or hearing from the prisoners seemed to register on their faces. They seemed able to concentrate on the job they'd been charged with, maybe hadn't drunk any gut-rot for just long enough to keep their hands steady. One moved so he could keep his shotgun trained but still see what was happening.

Nathan's eyes locked onto the circle of men just outside the barn, boiling around their victim like a shiver of sharks on a feeding frenzy. He didn't stop chafing his wrists against the leather bindings. Wouldn't stop.

Ezra had clearly worn himself out with his counter-attack, but when he did get his head from the ground once more, Nathan could see he wasn't quite spent yet. He was saying something. Of course he was saying something – he'd have to be dead and buried not to be goddamn well saying something. A flash of incongruous sunlight caught the skin over his spine and then his face hit the dirt again.

"They'll be here." Buck had taken up Nathan's refrain. He was somehow able to sound halfway convincing for JD's sake, even though Nathan was well aware he didn't really believe it. "They weren't far behind and we got Vin Tanner trackin' us remember. Those sons of bitches don't know what's coming their way. Ezra will be fine, JD. He's fightin', and the boys'll be here. You know they will."

Nathan knew Ezra fighting would only give the bastards easier access. They'd done this often enough to know what worked. "Lie still." He couldn't help saying it out loud, even though it was unheard. "God's sake, lie still. They'll hurt you more if you fight 'em."

He was praying harder than he'd ever prayed in his life. Not just for Ezra. For Buck, JD and himself, too. Although he wasn't sure, he thought maybe JD was crying or something. Wanted to tell him to stop that shit right now, in case it put him in more danger. He concentrated on his bindings, trying to think of nothing save that and the knife in his boot.

But, like Buck, Nathan was unable to avoid the knowledge that Ezra had been thrown face first across the barrel. That a man with a scraggy beard had just yelled in triumph, like he'd won a wager. One of his pant legs was flapping, one stockinged foot sliding in the earth. The others crowded around, obscuring the barrel from view and Bracken's voice sang out from the middle of them.

"Ride 'im, you beauty!"

There was a cheer as the bearded man was launched forward by the others in an awkward thrash of hands and knees. A bottle was being passed around and in between their mindless chanting the men took desperate slugs as the inevitable came speeding towards them like a runaway train.

Nathan couldn't see if the bearded man was on top of Ezra, if he was in him, what the hell was going on. He knew the behavior, though, and the sounds. God save him, he knew because he'd seen and heard it before. They were doing this because they hardly knew what they were doing anymore, or why. The physical motivation was welling up from some dark spring Nathan hardly dare believe existed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Buck jerk with the instinct to rise.

"I see ya!" snapped one of the guards. "I see ya, big feller. Don't you even think about moving or I'll blow the kid's head right off."

You don't do it, Nathan knew. No matter how strong the urge, how hard it hits you, you don't jump to the rescue when every single odd is stacked against you. Not if you're going to endanger so much as one more innocent life. By all that's holy, even if you feel like you deserve the fires of hell forever after, you just don't do it.

"Buck," he said.

The group had broken apart once more and the bearded man was lying on the ground in their midst, laughing like an idiot, both hands wrapped round his genitals as if he wasn't sure if they were still attached.

"Jeb Davis, you fuckin' useless dick!" howled Bracken in glee. He gestured fulsomely at Link Chain. "Step up now, Lincoln! Look lively there, bub, now's ya chance."

Link Chain, pants hanging open, shoved himself through the group. Although the prisoners couldn't see much, they could hear the distinct sound of Ezra yanking fruitlessly at the leg-iron. If he could make things difficult, of course he would. He'd pay for it though. By God he'd pay for it.

A chill had settled on Nathan, causing him to shiver. What they were hearing seemed worse than the glimpses he and Buck were able to catch. Outside in the morning sunshine Link's huge frame humped against a flash of pale skin. He seemed unable to get good purchase, feet slithering as the barrel shifted to and fro with a dull crunching sound. The sheer force of the bulk smothered Ezra, the harsh motion making his shackled leg spasm. There came the rhythmic clank of metal against metal, manacle and chain rattling the wheel-spoke until the whole buggy was shaking.

Buck seemed to have run out of words. He just rocked in place, muscles clenching over teeth in an effort to keep his distress under control. JD just hung his head, utterly still.

Bracken, convulsing with hilarity, stumped forward. "Jesus Christ, Link! What the fuck you playin' at?" He hooted with laughter again, jumped up and down on the spot. "Shit, ya made a fuckin mess of him but you ain't hit the goddamn target. None of you fuckers have the balls, do ya? Ya never have the fuckin' balls for it!" He toed at Ezra's chin. "What's that, pretty? Say ya want it for real? Want it good and hard and real?"

JD's teeth chattered and then he emptied his stomach on to the ground in front of him.

"I can't," he croaked, trying to get one foot under him to stand up. "I can't, Buck ..."

"You move now, they get everythin'" Buck spoke fast and desperately. "Ezra's doin' this for you ... you get in trouble now ... won't help him, won't help us ... "

"Shut ya mouth!" One of the guards swung the butt end of his shotgun, cracking JD's jaw and spilling him to the ground. Miraculously, he landed on his shoulder rather than his head. The blow split the skin, though. It splattered blood and made Buck curse.

The kid wasn't knocked out, to Nathan's relief, just stunned enough to lie where he was for the moment. Somehow, Buck managed to stay still. He sucked in another big breath. "Jesus Christ A'mighty, they're not goin' to get here." It was a shocked admission to himself as much as it was a statement of fact. "Ezra, Nathan. They're fuckin' killin' him."

"Easy, Buck, easy, easy, _easy _..."

Nathan knew Buck understood the situation all right, realized what a wrong move might trigger. Watching JD get taken down, though, what he could hear and imagine being done to Ezra outside the barn doors, that just might be an overload he couldn't handle. And if Buck didn't keep holding it together, that was it. Things would unravel too quickly, just like they'd most likely unraveled for all the other victims. Nathan kept his voice as level as he could.

"You gotta give 'em time, for God's sake, Buck, you don't gotta get yourself shot."

"Ezra don't _have_ time."

"Easy," Nathan repeated, stony.

If they were to arrive now, he thought. Within the next few seconds. Then maybe Ezra'd be saved from anything more than a bad beating and the vile memory of a pack of mangy tomcats spraying him with ejaculate. Nathan could patch up bruising and breaks, could soothe slashes and abrasions. Maybe Ezra would get away with this after all. He was a damn lucky cuss, they'd said that countless times.

Bracken was now jumping around like a kid waiting for candy to be dispensed. Link had slipped sideways and was on all fours, trying to catch his breath. He'd taken Ezra to earth with him and there were several attempts to haul him back over the barrel. Someone yelped. Ezra was still kicking and Nathan felt a peculiar, hopeless frisson of guilt.

_Damn, Ezra, what are we supposed to do? We can't get you out of this. Can't help you. You know, don't you? That we would, if we could._

Bracken rubbed his hands together, theatrical. He signaled with a sharp whistle to Reef that he was ready, slid his gun smoothly across the ground.

"Here we go," he said, "here we damn well go."

He unbuttoned his pants with a flourish, prompting a chorus of catcalls and applause. Then he paraded, fist pumping like a piston, making damn sure Buck was looking at him. Whatever expression he saw burning out across the barn seemed to please him mightily, made his eyes sparkle like the lit end of a 30-second fuse. He went into a fancy skid on the ground by the barrel.

"Oh, pretty," he said, "now you get what you deserve."

The group parted long enough for Nathan to catch another glimpse. He knew Buck had seen it too, knew that he'd be mapping out every man in the gang, every move they made, every word they shouted. Every twitch of Ezra's exhausted body. He wouldn't forget.

One last twist and Nathan's hands slipped, bloody, from the bindings. He froze, moved his head, got Buck in his line of vision, saw that he'd caught his attention. Their eyes met and Nathan slid his gaze to where the gang's horses were tethered.

None of the men outside the barn had wanted to be encumbered by their guns. They'd left them inside the mill-house or hanging on the rail by the water trough. Only the two guards and Camino were armed, and Camino's scatter-gun was pointing at the earth.

The momentary triumph that had flashed into Buck's eyes abruptly disappeared, snuffed out by the sounds they were hearing.

If their saviors were coming at all, they were already too late to stop Matt Bracken. Of all Camino's men, he alone seemed in full control of his faculties. Precise in his movement, full of targeted energy. This was no graceless hop-head jacking off in front of a baying crowd. Bracken was helping himself to something he really wanted. He was getting some kind of gratification that the others had no hope in hell of achieving.

Nathan eased his wrists apart, felt the slide of whip-thin leather through the bloody welts. Couldn't watch what was being done to Ezra anymore, but he wasn't about to let them all be butchered. Not if there was a single thing he could try and do to stop it. Mustn't lose anyone, though. Larabee wouldn't thank him for that. It was all about choosing the right moment.

"JD," Buck was saying as the kid stirred. "Listen to me, just listen to me … it'll be all right. Swear to you, JD, it'll be all right."

Nathan shut his eyes briefly, as if it would somehow block out Matt Bracken's urgent voice grinding out over Buck's.

"Oh yes … oh fuck … I told you … I told you …"

The breathy sounds of pleasure made Nathan heave. He fought hard against the desire to follow JD's example and lose the remains of last night's supper into the dirt. His teeth ground together as Bracken grunted and cursed his way through completion.

_I'm sorry, Ezra. Lord forgive me, I'm so, so sorry._

The performance seemed to have ignited a new wave of bravado amongst the staggering men. Bracken fanned those flames for all he was worth. "Well tan my fuckin' hide!" he shouted out. "Can take it, all right ... hell, that's some bitchin' sweet Southern ass you got there, pretty!" He suddenly became visible again as he rose to his feet, a sheen of sweat on his face. "Bit the goddamn little whore and he didn't even squeak ... Damn! Need him to beg, boys. Ain't no fun unless they beg." He wiped his face with a sleeve, clapped his hands, began to wave over a thin, fair-haired man still hesitating at the back of the group. "Cleared the way for ya, Cal, lessen you're another fuckin' dickless old lady. You'll slide in real easy. Come on now, you kin do it. Shown ya how!"

After a while a yell went up from several quarters and Bracken bellowed in delight.

"That's more like it! Give it to him good, Calvin! Hell, Nando, tellin' you … don't know what ya missin'."

Buck was shaking like he was about to explode. "I am going to kill you." His voice was a rasp of hatred and despair. "Every last one of you sons of bitches. I swear to God. I will rip your throats out." Nathan couldn't see him staying down a moment longer.

And then a rifle shot cracked, the report familiar, and right in front of their eyes, red flared on Fernando Camino's chest, spotted across his chin and mouth. The man dropped like a stone, hit the earth with a dull thump. As the barrel tumbled, Ezra slid off it limply and landed on his face. He didn't move again.

Nathan got a foot under himself, rose to an ungainly half-stoop. The guards looked to their fallen leader, momentarily stunned. Nathan charged, hardly seeing where he was going, and a shotgun blasted into the roof, raining splinters down on his head. With a roar from the pit of his belly, Buck launched himself at the second armed man, whose weapon fired wildly as he toppled.

Directionless, JD kicked out, caught somebody in the ankle.

They weren't in time to save Ezra from Matthew Bracken. Chris would regret that until his dying day although he didn't know it yet.

They were in time to follow up after Nathan got a hand inside his boot, arced his knife into the chest of the first man to try and enter the barn. When the guard under Buck righted himself it was Chris, still on horseback, that shot him between the eyes. It may have been the most accurate bullet he'd ever fired in his life. He, Josiah and Vin swept down on the mill barn in what seemed like a deafening thundercloud of exploding metal and churning hooves. They'd put six of Camino's Dogs on the ground by the time the others had fled, most of their guns left behind.

Chris and Vin didn't take off after them, though Vin, rifle still smoking, watched them out of sight.

Josiah stormed into the barn, serape flapping. He stepped over the dead guards to get to Buck who was nearest.

"I told you not to fuckin' take 'em on!" Chris shouted from outside, striding between the bodies, checking, re-checking. "What the hell were you thinkin', Buck?"

"Get to Ezra ... jus' get to Ezra," he heard Buck repeating as Josiah's fingers slithered against bloody cowhide, trying to slip in a blade without slicing through his wrists. Once freed, Buck slapped one hand to the ground, seemingly unable to get to his feet. Josiah shifted his attention to JD.

"Cut him loose," JD begged as the bindings fell away. Josiah caught hold of an arm as he stumbled upright, began to steer him first to the doors, then away from what was happening.

Chris had gone into a crouch by the buggy, letting Vin drag Camino's body roughly away by the leg. He heard the faint jangle of keys being pulled off the dead man's belt. His eyes flicked to the tatters of white shirt lying nearby, then to the remnants hanging around Ezra's shoulders like a collar of scraggy feathers.

In his heart he knew what had happened but he couldn't let his brain think it through.

"Oh for fuck's sake, for fuck's sake …"

Ezra's hair was splattered with semen. Much of his back, too, the skin branded by scratches, clear imprints of fingernails and knuckles. Jesus God, even teeth. They were oddly intimate marks, and Chris locked his jaw tight, barely understanding the flash-flood of emotions he felt.

A flare of fury made him snatch up the shredded shirt, begin to wipe mindlessly at the mess. Then he found Vin hustling him aside. Although the tracker seemed calm, his hands shook badly as he struggled to fit the leg-iron key into the tiny lock. When the contraption finally opened, he eased it off, flung chain and manacle under the buggy where they heard it coil up, thunking against stone. Nathan knelt to saw at the bindings, Josiah had brought a blanket and they were all breathing hard. All except Ezra, who, when they turned him carefully right side up, didn't seem to be bothering to breathe at all.

Chris saw Buck heading for JD. The kid was standing solidly planted where Josiah had left him, a wad of cloth clasped to his jaw. Buck was pushed away when he tried to take it to examine the damage. Wilmington made a noise of frustration, backed off unwillingly. He took a few steps towards the others again, not too near. Even from a distance of several yards Chris could feel the tension emanating from him, the doubt and indecision.

"Damn." Nathan's hand waved urgently for a canteen. Slopping water on to the bandana Vin handed over, he began to clean away the paste of blood and grit coating Ezra's face. "Needs to take in some air - if he still has a mind to."

"C'mon." Josiah's encouragement came from above as Chris stroked an insistent rhythm from sternum to heart, feeling the furious thump of blood against bone under his hand. "Fill ya lungs, Ezra."

Nathan splashed water hard as he could, trying to kick start an impulse that was becoming more and more vital as the seconds passed. The action sent rivulets of murk over Chris's knees.

"Ezra, stop this!" Josiah barked. He took a few steps forward, bent down and shook Ezra's chin so vigorously that droplets of blood and gray water flew in all directions.

Chris felt a heave rather than a breath. Jerked back to reality, all Ezra could do straight off was alternately cough and grasp for air. Each intake of breath rattled like gravel in a tin. He squeezed both elbows desperately into his sides like it might hold him together.

"That's it, doin' good," Chris said distractedly after a moment or two. He was aware his voice sounded thin, almost tremulous. "That's better, that's fine, ya doin' good."

Nathan reached forward as the breathing pattern gradually leveled out, flicked away a trickle of cherry red with a thumb-stroke, cautiously probed bone.

"Well thank God you ain't broke ya nose. So there now, ya don't need to worry about that."

Chris gave him a look. As solicitous as the man was of his facial features, it had to be seriously unlikely that Ezra gave a tinker's damn right now. Maybe Nathan had just said it to comfort himself.

Vin had been walking around in a circle a little way away but he drew closer again, went down on one knee. He was looking a lot less calm, his face drawn like he was in pain. An uncertain hand reached towards Ezra's ankle but then withdrew.

Ezra just ignored them all. He stared up at the sky, blinking gray clumps from his lashes. His chest continued to rise and fall under Chris's hand in the shallow, anxious rhythm of a panic that wouldn't quite go away. The first real response to anything came as soon as Nathan started to feel around his ribcage. Immediately Ezra began to scratch at the ground, trying to sit up.

"Could have busted ribs and Lord knows what all else, Ez." Nathan's voice became more and more agitated as Ezra continued to take no notice of him. "Take it slow ... slow, I said ... easy ... easy now, don't need to git up. Stay where y'are, it'll just pain you. Damnit, Ezra, would you stop that?"

Ezra wouldn't, so Chris and Josiah let him up a little. He rolled on to an elbow, still didn't acknowledge any of them. After a while his eyes began to roam across the yard, taking in the bodies with a kind of systematic detachment, lighting on one after another, the expression on his face not changing at all.

"Camino," Buck told him, mirroring Vin, staying in Ezra's eyeline but keeping at a distance. He was in a crouch, attention flicking between Ezra and JD, seemingly ready to jump for the kid if he decided to fold. "Reef, four of the others, all dead."

"Six down," said Chris. "Six to go."

A question was wheezed out at last, faint but to the point. "Bracken?"

"We'll get him."

Ezra frowned. A tremor rippled his upper body, forced out a moan as it subsided. He rolled off the elbow, bumped the back of his head before Chris could stop it.

Nathan was emphatic. "We need to get him fixed up and warm. We need a wagon and we need to take him back to Sharpeville." A hand shot up from the ground and clutched his shirt, dragging down so hard Nathan nearly pitched over.

"Hey!" he squawked.

Chris was as surprised as Nathan. He'd thought Ezra had passed out.

"Uh uh uh." Buck, sounding strained and uneasy, shunted a tad closer. "You gotta be kiddin'. Ain't goin' nowhere, ace. You leave this one to us."

Chris jostled an arm. "You're not sittin' a horse, Ezra. Not a chance. You're gonna stay here with Nathan, the rest of us will go after 'em."

Ezra still dragged hard on Nathan's shirt. His breathing was starting to quicken again. "Let me ... get up. Just let me _up_."

"No, now stop. Need to get you ... clean, get these wounds treated. And you can let me go." Nathan tugged at the hand still clamped to his shirt. "Let me go, I said."

"Shit, Ezra." Chris could feel him struggling to rise, sent a helpless look across at Josiah. They both knew that if he was bent on getting to his feet, he would - unless they knocked him down again.

"I need to get a proper look at you." Nathan was like a dog with a bone. Determined, and starting to get mad. "Can't do that if you're gallopin' about all over the place. If ya bleedin' I gotta do something about it. I need to know, I need to know what they did."

"Off me," Ezra ground out. "Get off me."

"Where the hell ya think ya going? Why can't you lie here quiet, jus' for a little while?"

Ezra wasn't going to lie quiet. There was some spark of mad resolve firing through him and they felt him push over on to his knees.

"Christ, Nathan." Grappling with Ezra wasn't going to do anyone's bruises or dignity any good. "He'll do it whatever. Least we can hold on to the sonofabitch this way."

"I ain't gonna fight him," Nathan muttered. "He'll soon see how bad off he is."

They braced as Ezra pulled himself slowly to his feet. The blanket slipped unheeded from his shoulders, pooled round his ankles. He seemed wary of taking all his own weight, unable to straighten completely.

"Yeah?" Chris said sourly in his ear. "Now what?"

"Godsake," Ezra mumbled, head drooped in pain and frustration. "Not dead. Not even dying. I can stand ... leave me ... leave me alone."

Josiah bent to retrieve the blanket, draped it round him once again. Nathan let go just long enough to motion at a graded stack of hay bales. "Try him over there. When the goddamn fool goes down maybe I can do something."

It was going to be some battle of wills.

Buck rose from his crouch and hovered where he was, clearly expecting an imminent collapse. Five, six, seven steps. They reached the hay bales and Ezra pitched up against them, drew the blanket tight around him with one fist.

"Ya good?" Chris said doubtfully.

"Not fallin' down."

It was true enough. He wasn't exactly steady, but he wasn't falling down.

"What the hell do you want to stand up for anyway?" Nathan demanded in another fit of disbelief and irritation.

Chris had an idea. Figured Ezra felt trapped on the ground, needed to stay on their level, see who was fixing to do what.

What a goddamn bitch of a mess.

He threw a glare over at Buck, telling him it was time to go deal with another of their problems.

Buck dragged his eyes off Ezra, moved across to JD. This time he wasn't resisted.

"How you doin', kid?" He took firm hold of JD's shoulders, pushed him back several steps. When he'd got him sitting on a flat-topped rock he tugged off his bandana. "Stay where you are. Here ya go, 'bout used that one all up."

JD let the bloodied cloth fall into his lap. He accepted the bandana, pressed it against his jaw, shut his eyes. It looked to Chris like he was trying to get a frantic stomach under control. Buck went for Ezra's jacket, lying where Camino had left it. Then he trotted over to one of the horses. He came back with the flask and a cup, stood sentry so JD couldn't see what was happening.

Fed the kid whiskey.

Chris waited in vain for Buck to bring the flask to its owner, couldn't seem to catch his eye to prompt him.

"Take your time," he heard Buck say. And then, after a while, "You up to a ride?"

JD was staring at Ezra, propped pathetically against the stack of hay. The kid had that all-fired, youthful, stubborn look on his face that Chris knew Buck both admired and hated in equal measure. "If Ezra is."

Buck shook his head. He looked at the weals around his wrists, wiped them absently on his upper arms.

"I'm not sure Ezra knows the fuck what he's up to," he said, still not looking over.

And damn but Chris couldn't be sure what he meant.


	4. Chapter 4

_A man dishonored is worse than dead_ ~Manuel de Cervantes Saavedra

* * *

Ezra wouldn't let anyone too near.

He balanced precariously against the bales, looking at them all like they'd hounded him into a corner. Chris didn't appreciate being made to feel so guilty. Didn't want to be the bad element today. And it soon became apparent that if he was to flicker so much as an eyelash in Ezra's general direction then Vin would start winding himself up to intercept.

Nathan stayed close as he dared. The fact that Ezra could move at all, and plainly wanted to move away from them, kept the others at a respectful arm's length. For the time being. After an unsettlingly polite request for water and his saddlebag to be taken into the shack, he'd pushed himself upright. Somehow he reached the wrecked building without assistance, disappeared inside with the blanket still wrapped round him and pushed the door closed. It didn't fit the frame anymore and they heard him trying over and over to get it completely shut.

"This is stupid!" Nathan shouted at him from right outside, ready to batter his way in, but Vin tried to pull him away.

"Leave him be, Nathan. I know you want to help, but this is maybe the best way."

"Hell, Vin, ain't got time to be sentimental here. He could be bad hurt inside. He could be bleedin' to death. You reckon that's the best way?" Nathan, unsurprisingly, was focused on one overriding need - to get on the other side of the door. Everything about his expression, his stance, his voice, told Chris that he didn't understand why Vin Tanner was trying to prevent that.

Tanner stood firm. "I reckon this may be the only way, 'less you want to force him. I don't think you want to force him do ya, Nathan?"

His tone was sharp as flint. Later, Chris would look back and think ... yeah, that's when it all started. That's when the stitches began to split. After Vin and Nathan had stopped pushing and shoving each other and were hovering in an uneasy stand-off a yard or two back, he approached the door himself, banged hard on the faded panels with both hands.

"Ezra! Open the goddamn door!"

Ezra said something but they didn't hear what.

"Back offa him, Chris." Vin was sounding a warning.

"You crazy? He needs help, even if we have to ..." Chris stopped, chose his words carefully. "Even if we have to persuade him."

"You're not going in there and draggin' him out," Vin said flatly. "You're just not."

"No-one's draggin' anyone anywhere." Nathan had his hand on the door again now. His posture totally belied his words. Vin tensed up even more.

Chris felt the waves buffet him. Nathan was right. He was absolutely right. But Vin was right, too.

He compromised to Tanner's viewpoint. It nearly always came down to that. "Let's just take it easy, Nathan. You bargin' in or me draggin' him out ... either way, figure Ezra don't need it right now. Let's just back off, all of us."

Nathan's face told him he thought the compromise stank but he did as he was told.

Chris moved a pace back from the door of the shack but he continued to look at it, speaking over his shoulder.

"How many, Buck?"

"I know who they were, Chris."

Simple question, Buck. Just answer a goddamn simple question.

"One? More than one?"

"Bracken. Maybe another. At least one other." Buck looked like he might hit out at something. "Shit. Shit."

Chris processed the information. He shunted it quickly through his brain, felt nausea squirming about in his stomach. "God's sake, Ezra," he said and then couldn't help himself, stepped up and banged on the wood again, hard.

Buck ran both hands through his hair, clenched his fists. "One, two, five ... what the hell difference?"

Potential damage aside, Chris thought that it made a difference all right. Just the idea made a difference. Probably the only way to find out for sure would be to ask Ezra, but he was damn sure he was never likely to do that. In the meantime, Buck was showing signs of working himself into a rage. He'd be more hungry and tired right now than you generally wanted. Looking for an easy target. Chris had half been expecting to be called to account for not having arrived in a more timely fashion. Sure enough, Buck's sights were suddenly leveled right at him.

"Dint find the Marshal then?" The tone was accusatory.

"Did that all right. He turned right back to town when the girl found us. Was glad for the excuse." He paused, gave Buck a meaningful look, didn't bother to keep the bite out of his own voice. "She why you broke rank, soldier?"

"Wasn't gunna stay up there watchin' and listenin'."

Chris thought about that. Wondered if it was in fact Buck who led the charge. It seemed likely. "No," he conceded. "Reckon not. She's alive anyhow. That's something, ain't it?"

"Something." Buck made a sour face, glared at the shut door. "Disappearin' Marshal comin' back?"

"I don't much care if he does or he doesn't. Too late to help anyhow. Perhaps we'll leave him this pile of trash to bury."

Chris swept his gaze over the rusted, bullet-ridden hulk of the buggy, could see the shadow of the leg-iron, coiled up like a dead snake underneath. Then he let his eyes stray to the barrel still lying on its side.

From a distance it had been hard to see what was going on. Without Vin's spyglass and already with the certainty that they couldn't afford to waste one goddamn second more, there'd been a sharp sense that something bad was happening. Even as they'd drawn nearer, within firing distance, it still hadn't been clear.

A crowd. _Something bad and wrong here._

Chris had heard Josiah right behind him.

"Oh Lord … oh my good Lord no."

As Vin had gone to ground ahead with his rifle sighted against his shoulder, Chris had realized two things at once – someone was chained, sprawled over a barrel, and he had no fucking idea where the other three were.

The memory grasped at his stomach, a queasy mix of shock and adrenaline. It felt hard to breathe for a second. He turned away from the buggy, feeling drained, like he didn't know how he was going to deal with any of this. With any of them.

Certainly they didn't seem inclined to move off the spot right now. They were all waiting on the man behind the door.

When he finally emerged, the blanket knotted haphazardly around his waist, Ezra looked within a whisker of passing out. He was dripping wet, hadn't dried himself off and there were bloodstains on the blanket. His face was chalk white under the dirt and bruises, eyes huge.

On the edge, but not speechless. "Why in God's name are you gentlemen standing about heah? We need to go."

"No," Nathan said to him. "You're not doing this."

"I am not much injured."

"They kicked shit out of you, Ezra, never mind anythin' else. You're bleedin'. For God's sake, let us help you."

"You're helping me just fine."

"You're bleedin'," Nathan repeated.

"Of course." Ezra's voice was completely flat. "However, I can assure you the damage is … it's not fatal." He set his jaw, concentrating hard.

"You have to get offa your feet, Ezra. Your ribs are banged up, I can see that from here. They cut you with that goddamn knife, ya look like you've been wadin' through a lake a' thistles. Jesus .. come on ... I ain't gonna hurt you. Ain't gonna do anything you don't want me to." Nathan swung his gaze to Vin. "Help me out here. This ain't funny."

Ezra tried again.

"I have ... lost some blood, not too much." He indicated his legs vaguely. "These … this is ... superficial. It's clean. And bound."

"Jesus Christ, Ezra, what are doing all that for by yourself?" Chris marched up, stood over him, bristling with regret and anger. "Any one of us coulda helped you."

Ezra stepped back, grabbing for a handhold that wasn't there, expecting to be manhandled to the ground. One arm came out to ward Chris off. "You would help me by staying calm and letting me deal with this ... incident ... in mah own way." His voice was losing the steel that had been there before, becoming breathless. He knew they were all just waiting for him to fall down. Instinctively drawing closer.

"He's not a goddamn sideshow!" Vin snapped at them and it was enough. They backed off again, temporarily, although Nathan prowled not far away. "Come on now, pard. Doc's right, you need to rest, just for a while."

"Need mah clothes," Ezra said faintly.

"Fine. I'll get 'em. Damn it, I'll help ya put 'em on. But then, you're gonna rest. Ya not gonna be sittin' your goddamn horse, Ezra. Not today."

Ezra adjusted his position against the rotting door-frame, snaked an arm round his middle. "They're gettin' away," he said and although there was no volume, the steel was creeping back.

"Shit, pard, they hardly know which way's up, they ain't gonna be hard to track. If you settle down, stop being so much goddamn trouble, then I can git goin'."

Ezra looked past Vin at the rest of them. The eyes that roved the group were suspicious, more defensive than they'd ever seen him. His gaze strayed to the body of Doreen's two-dollar customer lying under a blanket.

Chris had an overwhelming desire to call a halt to everything, to bundle Ezra up and take him somewhere safe. And then, when he'd found that safe place, keep him there, warm and covered and watched over until everything was all right again. Either that or knock him senseless, ride away and get drunk, forget the hell about all of it.

But, there were bodies to be dealt with, guns to be collected, decisions to be made. Ezra's bid for self-determination couldn't be tolerated.

"Enough," Chris said and beckoned Nathan. "Enough, Ezra, you've made your stand. Now ya gonna fuckin' do as ya told."

Ezra tried backing off again. It hurt Chris deep in the guts. He guessed Nathan didn't like it much either but knew he was enough of a real doctor-type he wouldn't go on dancing around delicate feelings for too long.

"This is shit," Vin said as Chris and Nathan moved in.

"You gonna help us?" Chris demanded.

"Am I shit gonna help you." Vin was already walking away. "There's a trail to pick up."

At once Ezra's resistance seemed to fade. He hit out hard when they came for him and Chris had no doubt that if he'd been near a weapon he'd've tried to use it. But it seemed like a whole lot more than just his friends were crowding in on him all of a sudden. His knees had buckled within a few yards of the door and he was down, sagging into their hold and cursing Larabee to hellfire and damnation.

* * *

Vin followed one trail leading from the mill for about three miles going east. It didn't surprise him that the two riders parted company after a while. He backtracked, picked up the second trail. Those four stayed together for barely a half mile before they split.

Six sets of hoof-prints.

It didn't bother him. He figured they'd drift back together soon enough, and they'd stick close to the river. They didn't know much what they were doing, and even though they were in a fight or flight pattern, none of them was moving very fast. Tired and empty and sleepless as Larabee's men were, Vin figured this bunch were a sight worse off.

He stopped to water himself and his horse, extracted the remains of some biscuit from the depths of his saddlebag and ate it, his whole being aching for coffee and an hour or two of shut-eye.

Vin had been close to losing it with Chris and Nathan back at the mill. Actually, with any of them who wasn't doing their darndest to give Ezra a break. Time and space to deal with the last hours in his own peculiar way. Vin knew he'd have been the same, would have tried to slink off and tend his wounds in private. Especially these wounds.

_Fuck. Especially these._

Well, if he couldn't help out one way, Vin was damn sure he'd help out another. He'd track these lunatics - as a pack, in pairs, one by goddamn one if necessary. He'd track 'em and finish 'em. Could maybe even do it by himself.

Only, Vin didn't quite work like that anymore.

"Too much of a fuckin' lawman these days, Tanner." He was kind of disgusted with himself, wondered sometimes if he'd lost more than he'd gained.

But then, when he thought of the six others, he changed his mind. As peculiar, infuriating and knuckle-headed as they often were, they inspired him somehow. Didn't know quite why that was, or when it had happened. Course he'd go back for them. They were like him down to the core, after all. They had the scent of this enemy as much as he did, wanted some kind of bitter satisfaction. Because they'd lost Ezra back there, Vin was pretty sure. Though he'd been standing up and talking five-dollar shit at them, he was good as lost and they'd all bear that scar.

Vin blinked up at the sky. It was still early. Not much beyond nine o'clock and another coolish day. The wind tasted of bad weather, rain maybe.

Belly down on a small mesa he watched two of Camino's men meet in the far distance. Decided they were likely to stay where they were, waiting on the others. They scanned the surrounding terrain constantly, seemed nervous.

"You'd better be," Vin said under his breath.

Camino's Dogs were known for very many things. Not least the fact there was nothing to look forward to but the rope for most of them.

They'd not surrender quiet. He was too far away to pick them off from here, so he debated rounding them up. It wasn't an option. They were out in the open, would see him coming. Didn't think either of them was Matt Bracken anyhow, and it was Bracken he wanted to trap, first and foremost.

Vin slid away from his vantage point.

The Marshal from Sharpeville had made it back to the mill by the time Vin returned. He'd brought Buck's horse, Mr. Wyles and an anemic-looking deputy with him. Vin hoped they weren't fixing to form their own posse, or tag along with Larabee.

Someone had boiled up coffee. Thank the Lord. Marshal had even brought food. Maybe he figured it was the goddamn least he could do.

"Hope they just keep ridin'" the Marshal said. "Hope they just keep goin' wherever they're going, keep ridin', right outa this territory."

Vin guessed he could scrub the posse idea.

"You still got a beef with me?" Larabee growled at him soon as he dismounted.

Vin responded coolly. "Depends on what you bin doin'." He looked around, couldn't find anything to make him mad right now and then shrugged. Chris would be the one to carry on the grouch, if either of them did. "Found 'em formin' up, hour or so west. It'll be a while 'fore they're ready to move out."

"Long as we don't lose them."

"Ain't gonna lose 'em." Vin was clipped but not aggressive. He shaded his eyes from the sun, took a hunted look around again. "How's Ezra?"

"Layin' down. Don't want to sleep, don't want Nathan to tend him. Wants to get dressed. Says he won't go back to Sharpeville and he can look after himself."

A grimace passed between them. Helped unwind some of the tension from around Vin's shoulders.

"And the hurts?"

"Ribs banged up. Bastards cut him some. That's all taken care of." Chris rubbed one hand against his chest as if in sudden discomfort. "Nathan's guessin' the bleedin's stopped. Far as he can tell, which wouldn't be too far seein' as Ezra ain't exactly helpin' ... seems like maybe he ain't tore up too bad."

"JD?"

"Doesn't know his butt from his britches. Nathan sewed up his chin. He'll do all right after a rest."

"Reckon we need 'em both away from here."

"How? JD'll manage, but Ezra ain't gonna last in the saddle and we shouldn't let him."

Nathan wandered over, suspicious that they were making decisions without his input.

"When can we get Ezra moving?" Vin asked straight off and was met with a disgusted glower.

"Think about it."

"Coupla hours? Coupla days?"

"Hell, Vin, what're you tryin' to do?"

"Give him some say-so. Figure he needs it."

"No, now. I'm sorry and all, but Ezra don't get say-so in this. He don't know what's best and he's more hurt than he can even feel right now. Marshal's going to take the bodies back to town and I reckon Ezra should go with 'em."

"Oh, so you reckon he should just damn well ride along with the fuckin' animals who did this shit?"

"Didn't say it'd be a cakewalk."

"God damnit, Nathan …"

"Stop it," Chris said. "Just stop it."

Vin couldn't say exactly who he did it for, but he let go his anger, went to get some coffee. He found Ezra lying flat on a bedroll behind the bales of hay. One of his hands was closed around his flask and he still had the stained blanket draped across him. His gun-belt and shoulder holster were lying right by one elbow, the guns within easy reach. Vin dropped down, sat cross-legged with his cup.

"Listen." He spoke in a low voice, like he was imparting a secret. "I'm doin' my best for ya here but we got a fight on our hands. Nathan and Chris don't want you comin'"

"Need mah clothes."

"Told ya. I'll fetch 'em." Vin drained the coffee quickly. It was lukewarm, full of grounds. "Tell me how ya doin, Ezra. Tell me what happened."

Ezra lifted his head, took a slow drink from the flask. "What do you want to know? That I can smell their stink all over me, no matter what I do? That what you need?"

Vin let a few beats pass. "Not pullin' punches with ya here. If you can tell it to me straight, I can take it."

"Well, see … I can feel Matthew Bracken's seed inside like it's burnin' me." Ezra spoke with a hint of challenge in his voice as if he thought that would shut Vin up, maybe even drive him away. The look on his face suggested he was mulling over what he'd just said, what it actually meant, and Vin got the bad feeling that Ezra was about to crumble completely. The desire to reach out a hand, to squeeze a shoulder, give some message of support, was nearly overwhelming. "The sin of Sodom has been perpetrated against my person," Ezra went on, almost to himself. His eyes abruptly shut and he jammed the neck of his flask between his lips and gulped from it before continuing in a voice teetering on the edges of self-control. "There was at least one other … successful penetration, I do believe, but it was a paltry effort and then ... hallelujah ... I was saved." He drank once more.

Vin swallowed hard, tried to ignore the knots in his stomach, force down the nausea that was rising. "Tell me the truth, Ezra. They hurt you bad?"

Ezra laid his head back, opened his eyes and stared upwards. The flask drooped and Vin shot out a hand to save it. Ezra's fingers were icy and wouldn't let go.

"It hasn't done me any good, Mr. Tanner, that's all I know." There was no challenge there now. Not a single spark of anything except defeat.

Vin was saved from having to think of the right thing to say next when Nathan hove into view. He was still positively tingling with the desire to get Ezra properly tended.

"You gonna let me do this?" he asked, holding up a steaming kettle in one hand and a pile of boiled cloth in the other. Vin knew the short tone masked a wild anxiety.

Ezra was dismissive. He raised his head again, finally let Vin snag the flask and propped himself unsteadily on an elbow. "Leave me alone. You too, Mr. Tanner, you've had your pound of flesh." His voice was furred with exhaustion.

Nathan extended an arm and Vin reached up for it, levered himself to his feet.

"I'll git ya clothes then. If that's what you want."

"Much obliged to you." Practically a whisper.

Vin and Nathan looked at one another.

"What?" Nathan snapped. "You think I'm going to carry on not doing anything?"

"He wants to be left alone." Vin kept his voice reasonable. Seemed to him Ezra was close to his limit and he didn't want it reached while they were out here in the elements. He'd had time enough on his own to think about this and he knew they couldn't afford to fall out, not while they were still so far from home.

With a hiss of frustration, Nathan dumped the kettle and the cloth. "I ain't far," he said to Ezra. "You can holler."

A gentleman doesn't holler, Vin thought to himself. It was what he'd have hoped Ezra might say. He followed Nathan around the bales. Four bodies had been loaded into an open wagon. Two more were strapped to horses and the last of Camino's men was still being rolled up into a length of tarp by Josiah and the Marshal.

"We don't need to fight over this, Nathan." Vin looked over to where JD was sitting leaning against the straightest wall of the shack. He had a bandage wound around his head, secured under his chin, and he was picking at it. Buck was tending to his horse and Larabee was nowhere to be seen.

"Reckon we want the same thing," Nathan agreed. "Just different ways of doing it."

"Ez doesn't need anything else taken away. That's all."

"When I've seen to the damage, then mebbe I could worry 'bout that."

Well, they weren't going to see eye to eye, and in any case Vin respected Jackson's powerful urge to help others, to try and make things right when they were so grievously wrong. "We don't need to fight," Vin repeated. He caught sight of Chris, carrying canteens. "How long we givin' JD?"

"Long as we can. Boy can hardly string two words together right now. He's bin hit hard." Vin knew Nathan wasn't talking about his jaw.

The Marshal left with his little party and the wagon. Made an unconvincing offer to send out more men to help and Vin was relieved when Chris turned him down. Wasn't sure that a Sharpeville posse'd be any kind of help at all. When they'd eaten some hot food, Vin and Josiah rode out again, found that the two were now three, still sitting under the shade of some pinyon and watching the open country all round.

"What's your plan?"

Vin smiled at Josiah's question. He'd managed to get his spyglass back from Buck and had spent long minutes studying the horizon in every direction. "Let 'em come," he said. "They can take as long as they like. Longer they take, longer JD an' Ezra can rest up. These fellers need Bracken. They'll wait for him." He showed his teeth. "And so will we."

As the sun peaked overhead and began its slow roll west, they hadn't left the mill. Some eight hours after he'd been deposited behind the hay bale, Ezra's agitation brought him to his feet. A crushing fatigue, not alleviated by the occasional whisky-soaked doze, had kept him down until then. It was plain he was in some discomfort on the ground and his dogged insistence that he'd be better off upright had eventually stopped even Nathan from repeatedly pressing him back on to the bedroll.

Faintly triumphant, he'd struggled into his crumpled, dusty pants, left the suspenders hanging to his knees. Grudgingly he allowed Vin to help him with his boots. Then he positioned himself against the rock that JD had bled over early that morning and draped his jacket round his shoulders. He looked like Shockheaded Peter, his face a nasty color, hair clumped and sticking out in all directions.

Vin and Chris approached after a while. "Here," Chris said. "Ya need to put this on." He held a shirt and long canvas duster in his hand. "It'll get cold."

"Black?" It was half-hearted affront at best.

"Just put it on," Vin advised.

Ezra let his jacket slip to the ground, and Vin bent to retrieve it, laid it across the rock. Chris watched Ezra's clumsy attempts with the shirt for a second, silent, then batted his pawing hands aside. Vin found it alarming that Ezra was totally unresisting, as if he were no more than five years old and having trouble with his coordination. He reached for the duster when it was done, made a sign that he could do this alone. After he'd shrugged it on he went through the pockets of his own jacket, extracted cards and flask, clasping them to him like they were going to save his life. Vin put his hat on his head, lifted a hand as if about to pat him on the side of the arm, and then didn't.

Buck returned from a third journey out to check on their quarry.

"Five," he reported. "Bedding down."

"Bracken?"

"Can't tell."

There was not much talk around the fire as it grew darker. No-one wanted to sleep in the barn which was still scuffed up and bloody. The shack, Ezra informed them, was full of rats. They ate, found their own places and lay down in them.

Vin left camp once more, went to scout ahead, came back when the fire was burning low and only Josiah was sitting up. They acknowledged one another silently and then Vin hunkered into his bedroll and tried not to worry how Ezra was doing and what the hell had to be in his head. He was aware the man was way across camp out of his immediate view and he didn't like that.

Ezra often slept apart from the others, even though Chris would sometimes call him on it, insist he move closer. And it was no surprise to any of them that he did so this night, rolled tight under blankets and the duster, whiskey flask tucked in beside him, a dark silhouette, pointedly separate.

* * *

Nathan, on watch, crept over in the thick black of night.

"Ezra?" His voice was a whisper as he dropped down nearby. He didn't dare reach out and touch the top of shoulder he could make out. "Are you in pain? Will you let me look at you?"

"I'm not dyin'."

"You ain't sleepin' either."

Ezra rolled towards him, encumbered by the layers. The light from the embers reflected very faintly on his face.

"And what do you suppose is to be looked at?"

He still had that edge to his voice that they were wary of, mostly because they rarely heard it and when they did, it wasn't usually directed at them. Nathan's reply caught in his throat. His instinctive need to help had nowhere to go, seemed to be the wrong kind of help anyhow.

Something - darkness, maybe - nevertheless made him brave. "I don't know, but you're hurtin'." He paused. "An' I think maybe you've bin hurt like this before." He'd been keeping the observation in reserve, figuring maybe it might crack the shell of resistance where other attempts failed.

There was no change of expression but Nathan still felt a battle going on behind those eyes. It was just about being won. Damn man was good at that game, of course, had worked hard at it all his life and could always find extra reserves to pull on. Nathan could practically see the wheels turning.

_Admit nothing. And, when you've done that, deny everything._

"Well then." This was one of Ezra's favorite ways to finish a conversation. The two words could mean anything from total agreement to flat-out dissent. "Expertise tells me it will pass." The way he said "expertise" made Nathan's guts twist, but he was nothing if not persistent.

"Your ribs then. At least that. Will you let me check you?"

"Really ... Mr. Jackson ... I would rather not."

One last try. "If you sat up more, you'd breathe easier. At least ... come on now, Ezra, at least let me help you do that."

Ezra fumbled a hand out of the bedroll.

Relieved beyond measure, Nathan scooted across the ground. He clasped the hand, found it cold. Then he slid his other arm under Ezra's shoulders, lifted carefully. He went to gather up what he could find to act as a support. A saddle, some blankets. Nathan found he wasn't the only one awake. Buck was wide-eyed in the shadows, crawled out of his bedroll, balled it up.

"Take it," he whispered. "I gotta keep my watch. Take the blanket too."

He pressed the items into Nathan's arms, didn't look Ezra's way.

Nathan surveyed Ezra doubtfully when he was leaning back on the mound of leather and wool, face scrunched and lined in pain. He still had his flask clutched in one hand. Nathan wanted to take it off him but he didn't, didn't say a word about it for once. He pushed a canteen of water towards him instead, slid a hand behind his head to help him drink.

Ezra took two swallows. The back of his neck was hot.

"You're fevered, Ezra. You need to let me look at ..."

"Mistah Jackson ... leave me ... the hell ... alone."

Nathan stared at him a second, at the flecks of dirt and dried blood still clinging to his skin and hair, the stunned blankness of his face. Because he could hardly stand to try and read the expression, Nathan concentrated on the injury instead. There'd been an attempt to clean out the abrasions on his forehead and chin but they still looked raw.

Damnit. He wanted to check Ezra for blood loss. Try and get a handle on the pain and what damage there was. He wanted to do what he was supposed to do in a situation like this, only he'd never been in a situation like this. Not as a healer. Figured all he could do was say what he knew to be true.

"I know this is bad, Ezra. This is shit, no two ways about it. But listen here, now. It ain't the first time I seen such a thing. I know what it can do to a man, body and mind. It don't heal easy. You understand what I'm sayin'? Don't you goddamn dare go carrying it all alone, hear me?" He slowly rose to his feet, hoping he'd made it clear that although he wasn't going to push, he wasn't going away either.

Ezra's hooded, burning eyes watched him all the way up.

* * *

Early in the morning, JD extracted himself from his bedroll and found Buck sitting near, cleaning his gun for him. He'd slept deep after one of Nathan's brews but had somehow pulled off the bandage in the night. Touching fingers to his jaw, he wondered if might try shaving. Decided not.

"Am I the last up?" He felt resentful of that and knew it showed in his voice. "I don't need coddling. Shouldn't we be ridin'?"

"And a fine good morning to you too," Buck said.

As he straightened to his feet, JD noticed Ezra limping towards the river. He was moving so slowly, so precariously, that JD nearly sent his teeth through his bottom lip watching him out of sight. On his return, the black shirt was buttoned up to the neck, the duster closed over it like a protective layer. His hair was sopping wet, as if he'd been underwater. He'd clearly combed it through with his fingers, left cold droplets hanging off dark, curled ends.

"I have delayed our departure," was all he said as he reached the remains of the fire where JD stood with a cup of coffee pressed to his chest.

Chris and Nathan loomed towards them.

"Fever?" Nathan asked quietly, although not quietly enough to stop Chris's searching look.

"Nothing to speak of." Ezra was deliberately vague. He was pushing them away, shuttering up like a Savannah townhouse in high summer. Nobody was better at doing that than him.

Vin, who'd apparently been up the trail some time around dawn, walked behind Chris's shoulder. He had a cup in his hand, bent down and snagged the coffee pot, poured out hot liquid, then stood and held it out.

Ezra reached, hand shaky. Vin just frowned.

"Feel like ice, pard. Get this down you. Don't worry, it's a good brew, one of Josiah's."

Ezra's teeth clattered on the side of the cup. He held it away for a second and it was clear from his face he was berating himself for his weakness. There was a small rotation of the neck, as if he was constricted within his shirt-collar. Then he drew the cup back to his mouth. This time there was no clattering, although the tremor was still visible in his jaw.

"This is not so much a brew, Mr. Tanner, as it is an elixir from benevolent gods." He spoke as if unsure what the effect of his voice might be, but JD saw Vin smile, glad to hear anything at all.

While there was a glare for anyone else who might be watching him, Vin was then graced with a faint upturn of the lips. JD went on steadfastly sipping his own elixir. He still wanted to go home, away from this wilderness of dust and rock, somewhere that didn't hurt your goddamn eyes trying to look at it.

"Well." Vin sounded illogically normal. "Ya welcome to the pot."

"Sounds tempting." Ezra was husky. "But we should be on the move."

"Nathan gonna stop ya?"

"He'll try."

Vin glanced behind him to where he seemed to know JD was watching. "How 'bout you, kid? Feelin' more sprightly this morning?"

JD threw the dregs into the brush. "Course."

Ezra turned towards him, but JD couldn't look at him for long, moved away at once towards the half-rolled pack on the ground by his horse. Full of doubt, Ezra moved away too.

As far as JD could see, Ezra had changed before their very eyes.

It wasn't only the black shirt and utilitarian duster, the startling lack of frill and glint about him all of a sudden. It wasn't even the absence of the familiar grace of movement, replaced by a stiff and ungainly posture that spoke eloquently of the sucking misery of his injuries ... it was something in his voice and in his face. He sounded different, and the light in his eyes had a bleak quality somehow, something that disturbed JD, made him feel like he was looking at a stranger. Like the Ezra who'd become so bound up with them had just crept away in the night.

The way JD saw it, the man was in this state for the sole reason he'd sacrificed himself. He'd gone right out and sacrificed everything. His honor, his reputation, maybe his very soul, come to think of it. JD wasn't easy with that. Was shocked by it, downright scared that he wouldn't have done the same had the tables been turned. It confused him, too, that Buck was so rattled. JD was used to Buck taking life's difficult corners with ease.

All he knew for certain was that he felt more deeply unhappy than he could remember feeling for many a long year. And he wished, right down to his bones, that he could do something to help. Because that look on Ezra's face just hurt.

JD could hardly bear it.


	5. Chapter 5

_Family is just accident ... They don't mean to get on your nerves. They don't even mean to be your family, they just are_ ~Marsha Norman

* * *

Chris had ridden out on foolhardy expeditions more than once in his life. He'd done it as a kid, he'd done it in uniform under orders, and it'd been a regular pastime since Sarah died. If Judge Travis had provided an actual contract of employment, he guessed there'd be a line about it in there somewhere, probably in the small print. He was aware that, as long they rode together, there probably wouldn't be any other kind of expedition.

But, like Vin, Chris didn't see the pursuit of the six men up the trail in this light and figured he might have been able to deal with them by himself. They weren't gunfighters, not even Bracken. Camino had been the closest to that, which was why Vin had nailed him from distance before a single other shot had been fired. The only worry was that their quarry had lost their senses and no longer much cared what they did. Not unlike Colonel Anderson, he thought, although that insane bastard had brought half a regiment with him and the remains of Camino's gang were now outnumbered.

There was a kind of sickly shock in the air, though, that made Chris feel more than uneasy. Made him wonder if the trusty, well-oiled machine that had ridden into Sharpeville two nights ago hadn't started to fall to pieces.

"Damn, we ain't lookin' too magnificent," Vin commented when it looked like they were about ready to head out. He referred, with a good helping of hearty Tanner irony, to a nickname coined by some bright spark in Four Corners. The moniker embarrassed them mostly, but it had served on more than one occasion as a rueful private joke.

"Shit," was all Chris could come up with in response.

Nathan hadn't quit giving his opinion since he opened his eyes first thing. Said there was no point in him even being there if Larabee was going to ride roughshod over his skills and knowledge. In his view, neither Ezra nor JD was fit to be on horseback. Chris agreed, but said it came down to the same thing as before. Unless anyone was inclined to tie either of them down they'd get no joy telling them to stay where they were. He took Jackson aside to tell him so.

"Didn't you have a gutful of tryin' to lasso Ezra yesterday? Man wants to ride, he can goddamn well ride. And JD'll manage. He's tough. Buck'll watch him."

"Fine," Nathan replied stiffly. Chris noticed he reined in his instinct to stick to Ezra like glue after that. A hawk-like, covert surveillance was in operation instead.

Some cloud of tight-lipped despondency had descended upon both Buck and Josiah. Chris felt like they were listening to him, but not hearing a goddamn word.

"Any of those bastards who don't get themselves shot are comin' back with us," he said as they got ready to mount up, just to make sure everyone else understood what he understood.

Buck seemed to hear that all right. "I don't aim to leave any of 'em standing, Chris."

"We're going to do what we have to, Buck. Like always. That's never meant execution. Now stop gettin' yourself in a twist and go look out for JD." He waited until Buck had moved away and then looked to the man still poised at the side of his horse, one foot in the stirrup. "Ezra?"

Ezra looked up impatiently. "Rested and ready, Mr. Larabee."

"Like hell you are."

Chris didn't like being lied to, but he knew they were all doing it. They were all pretending it hadn't happened, or that it wasn't so bad, or that Ezra, being Ezra, would somehow be perfectly all right.

Yes, said the cool look directed back at him. I'm lying, of course I'm lying, what do you damn well expect?

Once he was mounted, Ezra sat with his head bent. He'd wound the reins round one hand and was clutching the saddle horn with it. The other remained braced against the cantle.

"You'll break ya goddamn arm trying to bear ya weight like that, Ezra. You shouldn't be riding." Nathan had never been one to suffer fools gladly, although right now his voice was more full of concern than annoyance.

"You make things any worse than they already are, Ezra, nobody's gonna thank you."

"Fuck you, Mr. Larabee!" A snarl packed with pain and fury. "Just ... fuck you."

Chris capitulated, didn't say a word more. He'd never heard Ezra talk like that, a baffling mix of politeness and expletive, and thought that by rights he should have punched him off his horse. Figured, though, that maybe some rage might help.

Vin led them off and they rode at a lick. Their progress lasted no more than half an hour before Ezra pulled to a stop. He suddenly held up a hand and Chris felt a prickle along the back of his neck to hear him apologize. Rage had seemingly given way to good breeding.

_Damnit, Ezra._

Josiah and Chris got to him as soon as he'd begun a ragged dismount. He wouldn't have stayed on his feet without them but he wasn't best pleased to be grabbed at either. Surrendering to the forced assistance with a granite jaw, he let them walk him a few shaky paces from the trail. Silently they kept him from spilling on to his face while he vomited gritty mess into the sagebrush.

"Hell, you bin swallowin' earth?" Chris asked him, before remembering how they'd found him back at the mill.

They stayed in place while the damaged ribcage throbbed and burned in retaliation, Ezra gritted his teeth and a silent wash of tears slid down his face. He wiped the wet away carefully with the flat of his hands and they steadfastly ignored the action, staring over the top of his head in different directions.

Nathan had bounced from his horse soon as they'd come to a standstill. "See?" he growled.

Larabee laid a firm hand across Ezra's shoulder-blades, ignored the shrug of resistance. "Changed ya mind?"

Ezra scrubbed his damp hands together, dragged them down his pant-legs. He spoke slowly and quietly to Nathan without looking directly at him. "Before you start, I'm not bleeding. Could tell if I was. So ... I'd be truly grateful if you'd keep some perspective, Mr. Jackson. It hurts like hell, but if Mr. Tanner's on the money we don't have far to go." He huffed in a painful breath, let it out. "When they sprout wings and transport themselves across the other side of the territory, then I might think again."

Nathan didn't seem to be as impressed as Chris was by the amount and strength of Ezra's words. "Perspective my ass."

"No, Mr. Jackson. Perspective _my_ ass."

"You ain't amusin'. You're a fool."

"We stoppin', Ezra?" Vin called from his horse.

Chris was tempted to shout back that Ezra wasn't running this goddamn show, except that he probably was.

Towards the middle of the morning, Vin pushed ahead again, left the others behind. They were moving too slow for his liking, although he appreciated the reason. He never enjoyed riding too long in formation anyhow, but right now he seemed on a mission that was practically burning him from the inside out and Chris just let him go. If anyone was going to be able to drag things back from the edge of disaster, he figured it could be Vin Tanner.

Vin rejoined them when they'd stopped for a short rest. He looked suddenly exhausted, eyes rimmed red, his pale, set face blotched in dust and stubble. When he slid from the saddle it looked like he'd carry right on down and make a heap on the earth. Josiah made a move to catch him, but Vin's keen look at Ezra, standing hunched by his horse with his forehead dropped on to its neck, seemed to steady his legs.

Still not too magnificent, though.

"Up ahead of us, Ez," he said in a hoarse, dust-slaked voice. "A full six. They stopped to take on water, lyin' about like they won't be leavin' for a stretch. Looks like they're slowin' down." He turned his head. "We can take 'em, Chris. Anytime we want."

Chris squashed his desire to make some sarcastic comment about how grateful he was to be included in the conversation. He just nodded, laid a hand on Vin's shoulder. "Remind me what they're packin'?"

"Coupla rifles, looks like. Some of 'em have side-arms. Can't be too careful. They're ready to shoot what moves."

"Have a bite, Vin. We'll see to your horse."

Vin glanced at Josiah, but looked back to Ezra before he moved. "You ready for this?"

Ezra lifted his head, kept a tight hold on a handful of trail-matted mane. He patted the outline of the Remington under the duster. "I intend to see them reach the end of their road."

"Right with ya there, Ez," Buck growled.

"There'll be no blood-letting." Chris's voice was taut. "You all hear me? Any one of 'em who surrenders, we're takin' back with us." Silence. "Is that clear?"

Buck just shrugged.

"Sure, Chris," JD said.

"You're in charge, cowboy." That was Vin. Chris was pretty sure he wasn't being funny.

"Josiah?"

"I'm not looking to add to the burden of shame and guilt, brother."

Chris hesitated at that. Josiah had something on his mind.

He looked hard at the man, who looked steadily back. Something made Chris flick his gaze to Ezra and then JD but Josiah didn't follow the look, didn't confirm anything one way or another. Dissatisfied, Chris swung his attention to Nathan, busy pulling the remains of the jerky out of the corner of the nearest saddlebag.

"You're askin' me?" Nathan was as curt as Larabee.

"I'm sorry?" Chris felt a flare of anger, hated the way it licked through him, made his bones ache.

Ezra spoke up, sounding weary beyond measure. "I think Mr. Jackson is wondering why you think this exploit should be different to any other we have undertaken? Why we should behave out of character this time? It has never been our custom to butcher miscreants, however tempting."

"Why this should be any different?" Chris echoed his words, could sense the quake of surprise from the others that this particular conversation had been allowed to get going. He ploughed on regardless. "It ain't any different. Did I say it was any different?"

More shrugs from Buck and nothing from anyone else.

Only Ezra would take him on. Even now, it was only Ezra who'd dare.

"You suggested it, Mr. Larabee. By your particularity."

"I ain't suggesting nothin'. I'm _telling_ you."

Ezra opened his mouth in response but Vin cut right through him, quiet but firm. "And we're hearing." He held out his hand for the water, biscuit and strip of jerky Nathan was offering. Chris was grateful for Vin choking him off when he couldn't do it himself. Last thing he needed was to butt heads with Ezra. Well, any more than he already was. Their spikiness underpinned most days, was a running refrain they all comfortably relied on to tell them things were normal. Right now, though, it felt too destructive, like it would take more than just the two of them down if it got out of hand.

"We'll move out in twenty," he said shortly, and caught Nathan's eye. "JD, go sit. Ezra, get off ya damn feet."

Vin took his sustenance aside, watched everyone narrowly while he ate. He chewed slow and steady, took water in small, regular gulps.

Across the clearing, Ezra lowered himself carefully to the ground. He stretched out on his side, as far from the others as he dared, didn't close his eyes even though that was what he wanted more than anything. That, and to roll up into a ball and cry like a baby.

Apart from his ribs, which never stopped jangling for one goddamn second, it felt as if there was a spike lancing through him at an angle from his tailbone to his navel. His knees were like sponge and he needed a drink. It was not unfamiliar, the need-for-liquor feeling. He pulled his flask from the duster pocket with difficulty, and shook it in dismay.

He felt many more things worse than dismayed, of course, but it helped to fix on one emotion at a time. Especially those of a less powerful variety. This one was engendered by the fact that his flask had emptied so quick and that none of the others had seen fit to bring anymore whiskey with them.

_Bunch of unreliable numbskulls._

Ezra didn't mind that Buck had borrowed the flask for medicinal purposes while JD was leaking blood. He was used to providing emergency courage and pain relief, and never left the outskirts of Four Corners without the shiny receptacle full to the brim. Would have taken care of young Mr. Dunne the same way himself if he'd had the chance. But anyhow, it was all gone now, that was the point. He would have credited at least Josiah with the intelligence to stash an extra supply, however small, in some spare corner.

Apparently not, which was frankly disappointing.

Whiskey, common firewater or vintage malt alike, would have provided a three-fold comfort. It would have warmed him, for certainly he was cold. It would have helped numb the pain that flared over him, inside and out. What's more, in sufficient quantities, it would have prevented him from being clear enough to think. At present, that seemed by far the most important thing.

In the absence of liquor, Ezra was unsure what might make him feel better. It certainly wasn't food. That wouldn't go down right for some reason, and if it did then it didn't seem to want to stay down. Coffee had worked for a while, but now he didn't appreciate his heart racing, the number of times he had to absent himself into the bushes, the burn as it hit his twisted, empty stomach.

Ezra watched the camp, wondering how soon he could get back on his feet before Larabee or Jackson harangued him. He felt a chill shake his bones and wound the duster close, a shroud over his shame.

Ah, that word.

Josiah and his God seemed to think it fit. Ezra wondered if he would ever again have the strength to challenge the preacher on the matter. Perhaps better just to leave it, an insidious, self-fulfilling prophecy of a word that they could all understand.

Nathan might have given up asking to look at his hurts, but he wasn't going to stop demanding to help. Ezra knew that, knew he should keep a curb on his temper when he saw the healer wending a way over to him. But he wasn't going to just lie here and be goddamn well talked down to, he knew that much.

Nathan frowned as he saw Ezra getting first to his knees and then to his feet. He held wads of snowy-white cotton in one hand, and a cup of hot water with what looked like pieces of bark floating on the surface. Ezra was always amazed how quickly these men could get a fire going and a kettle on the boil.

"You still feverish?" was the opening gambit and Ezra cursed the fact that he hadn't managed to stifle his shivering fit.

"I am quite well, Mr. Jackson."

"You need to eat."

"Perhaps later."

"Look like you're in pain, Ezra. And drink the damn tea, don't just look at it. Even if you spit up, something might help." Nathan stood back as if to prevent an unintended touch, cup still held out. "Well, are you in pain?"

"Cracked ribs hurt like the Devil, as you know yourself."

"Anything else?"

Ezra might almost have smiled at the indirectness of the question.

I was shackled, stamped into the earth, violated. You may trust that it did not agree with me at all. No indeed.

He did not want to dwell on the dull ache in his lower back, the feeling that he'd been sitting in acid for the last several hours. He didn't know if it reflected some actual, physical hurt, or if it was his mind playing tricks on him, making him imagine he could feel ... he did not even want to give room to what he imagined he could feel.

"I appreciate your concern, Nathan. Really, I do."

"My concern don't mean shit unless I can help."

Ezra wagged his head. "You are wrong, you are very wrong. But here, if it makes you happy ... I'll drink your confounded ditch-water."

"Not about me being happy," Nathan muttered as Ezra downed the cup of liquid. He looked at him anxiously when he'd finished. "Ah hell … what is this, what's goin' on with you, Ezra? Damn it, you ain't gonna ... are ya?"

Ezra took several deep breaths, squeezed his eyes shut while the world tilted and his stomach rebelled. He tried to talk through it. "Seems that nothing … will stay down."

"Ride it out." Nathan's voice was persuasive. "Come on now, you need that ditch-water."

Ezra suddenly felt a hand on his arm. It was the gesture of a healer, of a friend, one that had always been welcome, but Ezra felt it sting him like a brand. His eyes snapped open, he jerked backwards from the contact, dropping the cup with a clatter. For a split second he didn't know whether he was going to hit Nathan or black out.

"Hell," Nathan said, freezing. "Hell, Ezra, take it easy."

"What's going on?" Chris made long, anxious strides across camp to get to them.

"Nothin'" Ezra bit out. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. "Nathan just ... caught a bruise or some such."

Chris and Nathan stared at him in silence. Ezra couldn't make his mind work quick enough, couldn't fix on the best way to extricate himself from any of this. They felt bad, really bad, that was plain from their expressions. Such concern made Ezra even more sick to the stomach than he already was, although he hardly knew why. Other people's anxiety couldn't be borne, it was too much for him to support and he didn't want it.

Determined to draw the poison, he managed to dredge up a small smile that almost dimpled his cheek. It was not a sincere smile, but it was a sincere effort to reassure and, if he'd but known, almost took their breath away.

"It appears there are very few parts of my anatomy that have not been mis-treated."

Ezra very much wanted them to respond to his attempt at levity but it seemed that neither man had it in them. They just continued to look at him with something in their eyes that Ezra was inwardly distraught to identify as pity.

The dimple disappeared before it had even arrived.

The ditch-water reappeared shortly after.

* * *

A mile and a half further down the trail there was one man on watch while another five slept the afternoon away.

Once they were back together, Bracken had pushed them as hard as he could. It was a thankless task. They were feeble from lack of food, too much liquor and those bitter roots of Camino's they'd been chewing on and off for the last hell knew how many days. He wasn't a good judge of character, never had been. Nando had been that. But when it became clear that they were all too strung out and exhausted to herd in any direction at all, he made a quick decision. Randomly guessing Cal Winterman, a fellow Californian, was the most wide awake, he threw him one of the rifles and then planned to join the others in a headfirst leap into unconsciousness. He couldn't lead anyone anywhere unless he got some good rest.

"You know who that was dontcha ... that shot Nando? Feller with the Winchester?"

George Wilton, last man to rejoin them, poked Bracken in the shoulder before he rolled into sleep.

"I wasn't lookin' that way. Was busy." Bracken's eyes were heavy. His stomach was empty but his head was too full of wool right now for it to keep him awake.

Wilton, a slaughterman from Kansas, was anxious. Like he nearly always was. Mouthy sonofabitch but prone to flaking out. Been working them all up to have a poke at one of Larabee's men, then backed right off soon as they'd gotten down to it. Bracken kind of wished Wilton had never made it away from the mill. Would have preferred Nando to be at his side, mumbling mad plans and obscenities in his ear.

"Was a good shooter, a tracker." Wilton was definitely rattled. "Think he's wanted. If it's who I think it is, they say he can track anyone or anything."

"Good. Let him track his own butt."

"He won't be far behind, Mattie."

Bracken rolled on to his back and yawned. He refused to be perturbed. "Even trackers hafta rest. They ain't caught us yet. They've been on the trail a while, and they're hurtin. Prolly still busy pettin' their poor beat-up boy."

"Cal?" Wilton called out. "You wake us in two hours. No more'n two hours."

Cal, sitting against a tree with his knees drawn up to his chest, tapped the rifle on the ground to say he'd heard. He didn't look much like he was about to mount a close watch.

While the others sank into slack-jawed slumber, he stayed wide awake. For going on an hour and a half he kept pulling at his hair to keep himself alert. He wondered resentfully when the hell he was going to be allowed some rest. There was a gnarly wind shivering the trees. Everything else was quiet. When he felt his eyelids dropping, Cal crawled to his feet, went for a stroll around. Rounding a juniper thicket, he stopped and stretched.

The teasing touch of a double-barreled smooth-bore shotgun slipped against the back of his head.

It was the kind of thing Mattie did sometimes as a joke.

"Shush now," said a voice, and it sure wasn't Bracken's. "Best keep real still. We got you covered."

Cal felt the rifle being removed from his hands. A flush of anger reddened the back of his neck, some idiotic impulse that made him turn, fuss to snatch the weapon back.

Bracken woke sluggishly as a shot fired. He knew at once, before his eyes were even properly open, that he was cornered. Almost like he was still asleep and dreaming, he watched two of the more clumsy of his fellows get themselves killed. His own instinct for self-preservation was considerably stronger than his instinct for a fight. Slithering himself into the protective side of Link Chain, something he had done for much of his life, he pressed both hands on his head in surrender.

"Shit," Wilton said, slapping the ground next to him in frustration before doing the same. "Knew we shouldna damn well gone to sleep."

Bracken crouched where he was, suddenly wide awake and staring. He searched for a sight of chestnut hair under a black hat.

"Weeell," he said cheerfully when he spied it coming right up towards him. "Tough as well as sweet. He done come to get me!"

The barrel of a Remington .45, securely handled and gripped steady, was jammed squarely into his chest and Bracken winced.

"Aw, that ain't nice. I do something to hurt ya feelins?" He figured he'd already be dead if the Southern boy had killing on his mind.

Lifting his head, he met feverishly bright eyes for just a second and then an unexpected punch sent him reeling. He didn't stay conscious long enough to know he was hit so hard his skull bounced off the rocky ground.

* * *

None of Bracken's men got off any shots, although some tried.

Chris had expected a fight, a dirty one. He was surprised to have as many as three prisoners left breathing by the end. Cal, the watchman, had been shot dead from some distance by Buck as he'd wrestled with Vin for his rifle. That shot was either brilliant or goddamn lucky. Chris grimly counted Vin fortunate not to have half a head right about now. He told himself to have a word with Buck about that, when he had the chance.

Two of the others had woken and gone straight for the remaining weapons. Chris had shot one, JD the other. It almost felt like putting sick dogs out of their misery.

"If we're going to bury these men, maybe I should at least know their names."

Josiah, arms folded, gazed down on the covered bodies.

Behind him, Vin and Nathan were going through the assorted packs. Didn't look like they'd discover much to commandeer. Most of the fleeing men's supplies had been left back at the mill anyhow. Buck and JD had started to make full camp right here and the fire was already smoking. Three men were dead and Bracken was still unconscious. Link Chain and George Wilton sat one either side of him, hands tied, eyes cast down.

Ezra wandered to Josiah's shoulder, poker-faced. He tried to push past the preacher but an arm sprang out and attempted to hold him back.

"I don't think you need to look on 'em, brother."

Ezra turned his eyes to the arm. "I think I need to do what I please without being pushed around, Mr. Sanchez."

"They're dead and gone, Ezra."

"Need to see their faces."

"I don't think you do."

Ezra made a familiar gesture of frustration, like he was loosening a kink from his neck. He pulled himself free, bent at the knees and grasped a corner of the saddle-blanket laid across the heads and torsos of the bodies. Then he crouched where he was, looking from one gray and bloodied face to another. Josiah glanced behind him, exchanged a doubtful look with Nathan, who shrugged.

Buck prowled over too, took a look at the dead men, at Ezra, back at the faces.

"Ez?"

Ezra shuffled his shoulders, made the neck gesture again. "Well, ah didn't get to look them in the eye so to speak but ... "

"Him with the beard." Buck jabbed a finger, looked off into the distance, then, unwillingly, back to the bodies once more.

Ezra closed one eye, chewed the corner of his thumb-nail.

"Yes," was all he said.

Buck sighed. He seemed reluctant to speak but grimly understanding of what Ezra wanted to know. There was the sound of him sucking air through his teeth.

"And this ... he's the feller Bracken called Cal. This one on the end."

"Really?"

The wan fascination in Ezra's voice made Chris prick up his ears.

Maybe another. That was what Buck had said. There'd been Bracken, and maybe another. The fact that neither Buck nor Ezra seemed able to drag their eyes off the dead man's face convinced Chris that Cal was maybe another.

Buck looked away first. "Won't forget it."

Ezra flinched at that. "How unfortunate."

Josiah put a hand out, curled it round Ezra's shoulder but was shaken off again with some force.

"Care to tell me?" Ezra asked him as he rose to his feet, "Just where you might be apportioning that shame and guilt, Josiah? They were the words you used, I do believe?"

"Brother ..."

"Don't brother me. Don't brother me, don't son me." It was that hostile voice once again, the one you'd be foolish to try and bluster your way through.

Josiah held up his hands. As Ezra walked away towards the fire, he bent down to replace the blanket over the corpses.

Chris handed Ezra a canteen as he came near. He dearly wished there was something stronger in it than stale water.

Buck drifted over to stand next to them for a second or two. There was an instant in which it seemed Wilmington might be about to say something. To Chris it looked like the perfect moment for Buck to get off his chest whatever was goddamn well sitting on it, but the moment splintered before his eyes. Buck stared into the fire as if gathering his thoughts and then seemed to get antsy. Nervous as hell, Chris readied himself to follow where he moved.

Ezra, for his part, stayed rooted to the spot, the canteen hanging loose in one hand, untouched. His eyes moved towards Buck and Chris as they strayed away but the rest of him remained still.

Twitchy, Buck stalked across to the seated prisoners and stood in front of them in a slouch, hands low on his hips. "Yep, you're here," he said when he saw Bracken sitting up taking notice, looking closely at his surroundings. The man had been hit hard enough to have a lump above one eyebrow but his Stetson had saved him from a split skull.

Bracken made a pull at his bound wrists. He glowered for a second, let his eyes pass over Buck and then Chris as if they were entirely unimportant. Then he went back to staring around, noting where Link Chain and Wilton sat, where the horses were, who was in camp and where they were situated. Finally his stare came to rest on the man nearest the fire. Bracken focused hard, didn't manage to provoke eye contact.

He looked back to Buck, angled his chin towards the fire.

"Came back for his sweetheart."

It was as much as Chris could do to stop Buck drawing his gun right there and then. His own hand was out and clamped round Buck's forearm before Wilmington could make that move. Ezra didn't react except to gaze coolly across at the prisoners from under his hat. If he'd been one of the three, Chris figured he might have been more spooked by Ezra's apparently tranquil stare than Buck's freewheeling rage.

"You can't let him get to you, Buck."

Buck laughed bitterly at that. He allowed himself to be drawn away and then brushed Chris aside, spoke in a low tone, keeping the conversation just between him and Larabee. "Get to me? You think he _gets_ to me? I want to fuckin' kill him, Chris. All of 'em."

"I know you do. But we have to let the law deal with them."

"Remind me again why we have to have that kind of shit stinking up our jail?"

"Not right confident about the Marshal in Sharpeville, but I know Judge Travis. And I know us."

"Ezra don't want them there."

"He told you that?"

"I can tell by his face."

"You can't tell nothin' by his face. None of us can. Now, have you finished bellyachin?"

Buck looked disgusted and stumped away. Chris watched him go, the set of the retreating back familiar. He and Buck had weathered some spectacular clashes over the years, despite what they owed one another. Felt like they were dancing around the edges of one now and it wouldn't help. It goddamn well wouldn't help. And Chris didn't even know who to blame for it, either.

Ezra, meanwhile, had broken from his trance-like state and begun a careful walk around the outskirts of the camp. The duster was pulled close and his chin was sunk into its upturned collar.

"There he goes," Bracken called out. "How you feeling, pretty?"

Several heads turned in his direction, all stunned to hear him speak. That he dared speak to Ezra.

Chris was gut-punched to see Ezra's steps falter. Would have hoped he'd just walk on by.

"Hooowheee ..." Bracken gave one of his little laughs, like he was the funniest person alive. "It's hard watchin' you strut about, all trussed up in ya big coat. Not how I like to see you, pretty." He tapped his head meaningfully. "Can still see what's underneath though ... always be able ta see that."

Because Ezra wouldn't speak, for which he was eternally grateful, Chris answered himself. It wasn't much of an answer, but there seemed nothing else to say.

"Shut the fuck up."

"You can't change nothin'," Bracken said and he was addressing his words to all of them now. "Can't change I fucked the tail off your sweet boy. Can't change that he asked for it." He paused, lit the fuse. "Or, that he's still askin' for it."

Bracken got his explosion.

Chris would have placed bets on it being Buck, but he was wrong. Although both Vin and Buck swore loudly, it was Nathan, coming from nowhere, that flashed across the clearing. Nathan, with fists flying and vengeance in his heart.

In a second, Josiah had scrambled from the ground where he'd been wrapping up the bodies. Joined Vin in racing over to try and head Jackson off. Not fast enough.

Nathan was a powerful man and packed a powerful punch. When he reached Bracken, barreling straight through the restraining arm of Josiah and Vin's wild grasp to the back of his jacket, his fists opened. Both hands wrapped around the man's windpipe.

Bracken lurched, his eyes round with surprise. He was slammed hard against the tree at his back, so hard that Link Chain, sitting only a few feet away, yelled in protest. Clenching his teeth, Bracken stared up at his attacker. His black eyes positively glittered, almost as if he were enjoying himself. It was plain how he gained his nickname.

"He ain't nobody's sweet boy!" Nathan rattled Bracken viciously. "Hear me? _Nobody's._ And if he doesn't get around to slitting your throat while you're asleep, you goddamn lousy piece of shit, then maybe I will."

"Nathan! Take it easy! You ain't helpin' ... come on, now. Git offa him, what's the matter with you?" Josiah hauled with both arms, made only a little progress in dragging his friend away. While Chris knew from experience that Sanchez could out-muscle the others, even Buck, this was a wholly different physical challenge. Vin piled in too. It was the only way.

They had to wrestle Nathan's hands loose from Bracken's throat. Even then he bucked and strained against them, while Bracken sank back against the tree, hacking and spitting out insults.

Chris was ready. Ready to clear leather and fire a broadside, but, abruptly, Nathan stopped resisting. He didn't seem to lose any of his anger, just maybe became aware of the struggle he was having with two men who he didn't want to be patching up later. Chris could practically see the power drain from his muscles, some of the tension fading away. He was walked, rather than dragged, back towards the fire. There he stood, breathing hard, Bracken still in his sights.

"He should pay, Josiah, we should make him pay."

"He will pay." Josiah's voice was calm. "Be sure of that, Brother Nathan. He will pay."

Vin rolled one shoulder, poked it dubiously. Nathan looked across at him and Vin scowled.

"Don't say nothin'."

Chris was there now, standing between Nathan and the prisoners, blocking their view of each other. He glanced around, saw Buck and JD looking nervous.

"Where's Ezra?"

"River."

His heart sank. "He's going to damn well wash himself away."

"I'll go git him," Buck said, making a move in the direction of the water.

"Let him alone. Man needs his privacy."

Buck shook himself impatiently. "Even if he takes a lung fever paddling about in that cold like a goddamn duck every five fuckin' minutes?"

Shit. It would be so easy to take a swing at Buck. That he didn't do it told Chris that maybe he'd started to grow a little since he and Wilmington had first battered one another into the dust over something and then hauled one another up and into a saloon.

"We'll make sure he gets warm," he said evenly. "Now, all of ya. Just settle down."

Chris let them get back to what they were doing, cast a long look over at Bracken, who now had his eyes closed. Then he joined up with Vin and they took a stroll a little way out of camp.

"How long 'til we're home?"

_Home._

Chris wished it didn't feel so bitching important. He wished he hadn't obliged them all to drink to it. Now that little gesture of solidarity, so comforting at the time, felt like a whole big, ugly temptation Fate hadn't been able to ignore.

"At this pace? Three days, maybe four. If we was to push on ahead ... Buck, Josiah and us ... could make it in two."

Chris breathed in a draught of evening air, caught the whiff of food on top of the breeze. His stomach growled. "Sharpeville ain't exactly the place for JD and Ezra to rest up, and I don't want to leave Nathan out on the trail with 'em."

"We'll take it slow then, stick together."

_Stick together_. Vin had found the magic words.

"He's holding up."

Vin rolled his newly-sore shoulder again. "Yep."

"Just want to get those sons of bitches behind bars."

Vin made a face at him. "Bought ourselves a passel of trouble there, cowboy." There was no censure in the voice, even though Chris knew full well that if he'd held back, had kept them all together in the first damn place, they'd be well on their way home, intact, right about now.

"Reckon we can do anything for him?"

Vin looked out across the plain, blew a long breath. "Beats the hell out of me. Hafta watch out for him real close. And JD. He's shook up good. Gonna take a while for him to come round."

"Hell!" Chris began to seethe. "It's like having a goddamn family all over again, only this one'd never give you any peace and comfort. This one'd turn around and bite ya bitchin' hand off soon as look atcha."

"Better'n none at all."

"Ya think?"

Vin laughed quietly. "You're doin' all right."

"Reckon I need to do better than that, else he's going to do something stupid. Or he's going to walk away. And he might not be the only one."

Vin slapped him on the side of the arm. He had that look on his face, like he thought life was pretty strange but it was kind of what he was here for.

"With you at the head of the table? Shit, Chris, none of us'd fuckin' dare."


	6. Chapter 6

_Home is home, though it be never so homely_ ~John Clarke

* * *

Ezra stropped his razor on a strip of leather.

He leaned against a broken boulder at the shallow edges of the river, the toes of his boots wet.

Cold-water shaving was a form of bodily torture in his opinion, but he'd learned enough in the last five months not to even mention hot water ablutions when they were on the trail. Nothing short of disaster would change his routines, however. No matter how trying the circumstances, he'd always attempt to raise the collective eyebrows of his compatriots by appearing well-groomed. They expected it of him now, as much as he expected it of himself.

He lathered up with the last of his soap, inclined his head, drew the blade slowly under his chin. Somewhere in his pack there was a mirror, but he had no intention of risking a look in it. Much as he would have liked an examination of the bruising he could feel, the idea of catching a glimpse into his own eyes was terrifying. Ezra figured he knew his own face well enough by touch.

Every move he made, however cautious, caused enough pain that it sparkled across his vision. He could have stopped what he was doing, of course, just kept still where he was and rested. But to hell with it. Least he knew he was still alive. Least he had enough of himself left to be able to hang on to important standards.

On the second upward stroke he applied a little more pressure, enough to hear the blade rasp. The first careless nick under his lip elicited no curse. Strangely, he hardly even felt the sting. Or the second time.

The third seemed to be in an interesting location - just where the mandible articulated with the ...

_Cheekbones, darlin' boy, by far and away the most valuable gift I could give you ..._

The sudden unexpected interruption of Maude's voice caused a thick tide of shame to wash into his gut.

Ezra poised the hand holding the razor on his knee. The sight of blood and soap mixed together was all wrong. Made him want to retch, powerfully enough that he knew he couldn't control it. As his stomach began to spasm he leaned forwards with a groan, not really sure what his body was trying to do to him. Just that it hurt like god almighty damnit ...

The motions got rid of his mother's voice at any rate. Nothing else, though. None of the shocking rage and terror that seemed caught in his throat, or the dirt that still crawled on his skin. He couldn't throw that up, couldn't wash it off or scratch it away.

Ezra hated discomfort. He hated and loathed it, knew his friends were often contemptuous of his obsessive desire to avoid it. But, whatever they might think of him, he knew well enough that even when you felt nearly overcome by it, you couldn't afford to give in. So he persevered with the razor, even though he was shivering too much now to be precise. Hoping he'd done some kind of a job that was better than no job, he smeared whiskery soap off the blade and on to the duster, then scrubbed the rest from his face with a sleeve.

Desperately slipshod.

All of a sudden he badly wanted to sit by the fire, to be near somebody. Anybody. Any of them, all of them.

Halfway back up the stony track he felt the spasms again. There was something else too, although he tried to ignore it, tried to carry on.

The chatter of memory in his ears.

_Tell me, are you a sinful child? Is this boy? Or is it you, Ezra P., are you the one?_

Ten minutes in the brutal, magnolia-scented dark.

_Are you begging, Ezra P.? Are you begging me?_

Ezra staggered to a stop, furious to be so weak.

Hadn't he discovered, two days' shy of his seventeenth birthday, that however tattered his heart, he was tougher and more resilient than he looked? Hadn't he been through this whole goddamn nightmare before, thumbed his nose at it and walked away without a mark? Lord in Heaven, hadn't he spoken up for JD because he thought he would be tough enough? That, after the first bruising entry, his shocked body would simply block out the visceral agony of being gutted repeatedly by thieves?

Wrong. Utterly and laughably wrong on all counts.

Ruined and dishonored in front of his friends … Christ in his holy goddamn heaven, right in front of them.

Ezra had felt every second and could feel it still. All of it, every hateful touch of every one of them. Bracken above all, whose vicious, insistent body had filled him with poison. The man who'd whispered filth in his ear, bludgeoned his senses, who'd thrust a gripping hand right into his heart and was even now squeezing the life out of him.

He dropped the razor from numb fingers. The slam of both hands against the rock-face nearest him made his palms sting. He felt his spine curl, vertebra by vertebra. Battling the hopeless clench of muscles, he strained against the acid flux until water ran from his eyes and he thought his head would burst.

Footsteps crunched in the loose ground behind him.

The hair rose on the back of his neck at the approach. Whoever it was came up close. A hand that didn't seem attached to anything else clapped abruptly on to his back, grasped a fistful of duster and then let go again. There was a pause, the trace of a pattern, a little rough, trying to soothe.

Startling.

That anyone would freely intervene in this ugly conspiracy of mind and body. He stared dizzily down at the silver string of saliva heading for the dust.

"Jesus, Ezra, ya turnin' yourself inside out. You gotta stop this."

Chris was there, one hand on his back, the other attempting to prize him from the rock. He tried to pull away from the grasp and found that Chris wouldn't let him. A storm surge of panic welled in his chest, threatened to overwhelm him.

Apparently sensing it, Chris released the wrist and stepped back, both hands in the air.

"All right, all right, I'm letting you go." His voice was low, sapped of anger. "There. It's all right. Ain't gonna touch you."

Ezra leaned a shoulder on the rock wall, wiped spit and mucus from his mouth into the crook of his elbow. He placed his other arm around his ribs, let himself be pulled along by the drift of agony.

"Fuck, Ezra, don't let 'em see you lie down and die out here."

It was both a plea and an order.

"If it pleases me to lie down and die, Mr. Larabee, then I will damn well do so." The words nearly stuck in his desert-dry throat.

Chris pressed a canteen at him, lid removed. "Not with Mattie Bracken watching, you won't. I won't let you." Ezra took a slug of water. "Every goddamn step you take ... every moment you keep your head up, and he gets closer to the rope, is one he's losing."

"Pity's sake," Ezra grumbled. He shoved the canteen back. "Spare me your tedious homilies."

His arm was gripped in a vice once more. A grip that didn't lessen even when he huffed in pain.

Typical Larabee. So much for ain't gonna touch you. Couldn't even put a point of view across without recourse to violence.

"You are going to come back and eat, Ezra. You're going to sit down right in front of those yellow-bellied bastards and eat something - and not one fuckin' crumb of it's comin' back up. You understand me?"

The grip, unrelenting, was somehow more comforting than the fuss of spirals on his back.

"Everything all right?" Another voice, so anxious that Ezra's gut clenched again.

Chris spoke over his shoulder without loosening the grip. "It's fine, Josiah. Ezra's a little rough." A pause. "We'll be a minute."

"You need a hand?"

"Nah, sonofabitch is going to walk back on his own two feet, ain't that right, Ezra?"

Ezra felt his arm dropped. The sudden movement rocked him.

Chris leaned down to swipe up the razor from the ground, handed it to him and then just held out his hand, palm up, to indicate that Ezra should lead the way. Not acknowledging weakness was a way of offering support, Ezra realized that. He was grateful for it, too. Back in camp he sensed himself being shadowed all the way to the fire, where Buck was on his haunches scrubbing bacon haphazardly from one side of a blackened skillet to the other.

Not ten yards away, Matt Bracken chewed cheerfully.

"Eat," Josiah said and handed Ezra a plate. There was a mess of bacon and beans in the center, a fork buried in its midst.

Without putting a thing into his mouth, Ezra tasted the tang of salt and pork, generously burned. His stomach began to creep up his throat again. It was going to be a fight to get this down, he knew, never mind keep it down. He raised his eyes cautiously. Chris was watching, expression unreadable, and Ezra was filled with the burdensome desire to prove himself in front of the man as usual.

Shoveling up a forkful, he raised it in Larabee's direction. "Bon appetit," he said gamely, and stuffed it in.

* * *

They rode in fits and starts all next day, Vin at the head of the convoy, four flanking the prisoners and Chris riding drag with Ezra. They made frequent stops, Ezra disappearing alone towards the nearest water-source, if there was one. Every time he re-appeared he had less spirit. The stops became longer. Overnight camp was made hours before the sun dipped out of sight.

Rest was good, for all of them. But it meant the prisoners would need feeding, taking somewhere to relieve themselves. It meant they'd be free to sit and cause what trouble they could.

The three of them were kept tied up in the center of the camp so they could be overseen. Bracken watched Ezra all the time, either with a speculative leer or an intense, unwavering stare. And Larabee's men watched him too. Bracken seemed wary of speaking since Nathan's outburst, but there was something about him that suggested he wouldn't give up. No matter how weary the long hours struggling to keep balanced on his horse, he always had a bright look in his eye, like there was something just about to trip off his tongue.

"Gotta piss," would come out suddenly, to whoever was in earshot. "Send my pretty on over to help me out why don't you?"

None of his captors took the slightest notice of him, Ezra included. Link Chain seemed to find it endlessly entertaining, but George Wilton would get irritated. He apparently didn't want continual reminders of what he'd participated in.

"For fuck's sake, Mattie, they untied ya hand so you could eat. Leave ya goddamn dick alone, ya puttin' me off my supper."

Wilton would be roundly ignored.

"Well hell! Look what I have here!" Bracken would chortle, while Link guffawed through his food. "Got something for ya, pretty! Come on now, come and get it." And he'd pantomime sexual release until Link nearly choked with the hilarity.

It would be wearing Ezra down to the bone, they guessed, although he hadn't so much as blinked, wouldn't look at Bracken anymore. The steady gaze that followed him about was probably worse than anything Bracken might have to say but Ezra was more or less giving the impression that he was unaware of it. Such constraint beggared belief, made Buck look like he wanted to get hold of him by the lapels and shake him until his teeth rattled, until he acknowledged what was being said and reacted to it. Control came at a price, though. Ezra still couldn't eat much without spewing it up a few minutes later, had little to say and, Nathan was pretty sure, hadn't slept more than an hour or two straight since they left Sharpeville.

Vin, rifle balanced on his knees as he forked beans direct from a tin, glanced among his fellows. It would be a miracle, he'd said to Chris in private, if they managed to get back to Four Corners without one of them discharging a bullet between Matt Bracken's ears. What Vin said he wanted, more than anything, was to hand a loaded gun to Ezra and tell him to go right ahead. To do it now, before one more poisoned word left Bracken's lips. He admitted he wasn't proud of himself but couldn't get that thought out of his head.

"If it ain't me it'll be someone else. We should tie up his goddamn mouth. Ain't right for Ezra to hafta listen to it, Chris. And JD's had enough. He can't take much more."

Chris was mindful of all this. He was wary of Vin's bubbling silences, the mayhem that glittered in Buck's eyes most of the time. For himself, he would have felt a whole lot better if Ezra had caved. If the man'd pitched a fit, thrown a cup of coffee across camp, punched the goddamn smirk off Bracken's face and drawn blood.

Eventually, squatting down in front of the prisoners, Chris silenced them with the force of his own implacable stare.

"You've about let your butt overload ya mouth, Bracken. One more word, you'll be gagged the rest of the way, understand?"

Matt Bracken said nothing, just slid his gaze once more in the direction of Ezra's back. He seemed well aware that Larabee was quite capable of doing what he said and more, of withholding food and drink, maybe.

Couldn't quite help himself completely though.

"He promised to make it good!" he abruptly sang out in the dead of night, his voice echoing across the camp. "You musta heard. And let me tell you, he surely did make it good. You fellers have no idea. Or then again ... maybe you fuckin' do!"

There came the sound of movement in the dark, rapid footsteps across camp. It seemed like everyone had suddenly sat up in their bedroll. Something was knocked over, a surprised grunt came from the direction of the prisoners. Some huffing sounds. Then Larabee growling.

"I said shut the fuck up, Bracken. Now shut … the fuck ... up."

"Chris," came Vin's urgent whisper as an uneasy quiet descended. "Ezra's on the wander."

They bumped shoulders, followed the sound of dry heaving into the bushes.

"Damnit," Vin said.

Ezra was a rounded shadow, on his knees, one arm braced in front, the other clutched around his ribs. Far as they'd seen, he hadn't eaten a goddamn thing that evening so it was no surprise nothing was coming up. Seemed he was heading downhill fast. They squatted either side of him, fighting the urge to pick him off the ground.

"Aw c'mon now, pard, take it easy." Vin shuffled close as he dared. "Not doin' you any good."

Chris, his stomach in sympathetic spasm, mad at himself for not having dealt with Bracken sooner, spat into the brush. Then he moved even closer than Vin, clamped hold of the duster.

"I shut him up. All right? I shut the fucker up. Done what I shoulda done right off, tied a gag on him. He'll be lucky if I take it off for him ta eat."

Ezra pushed himself back on his haunches slowly, allowing Chris's hand to prevent him falling. He kept his arm round his ribs.

"'Preciate it," he slurred. "Only, it's too bad ... too bad."

"What the hell you on about, Ezra?'

"Him," Ezra mumbled. "All the goddamn time. In mah head."

"Shit," Chris said. He felt like he'd been slapped in the face.

* * *

Half a day from Four Corners, the weather began drawing in. Since dawn the sky had been filling up with banks of cloud and the sharp breeze that had dropped for a few hours had begun to pick up again. Vin was pushing them to reach home, probably wouldn't have called for a rest-stop except that Josiah suddenly insisted with a loud shout that nearly got tossed away by the wind. When JD turned around he saw the preacher's horse was flank to flank with Ezra's, like he was trying to keep him in the saddle.

The horses were all a little fussy. They were weary of the trail, didn't like the wind in their eyes, and there was some jostling when they were pulled up.

Nathan dismounted smartly. He and Josiah were the break for Ezra's sideways slither.

"Damn," said Chris. He swung his leg to the ground, had to reach for the reins as his horse was jumpy, handed them to JD just in front. He took several strides to reach the spot where Josiah and Nathan were leaning Ezra up against his horse. "What's goin' on?"

"He's at the end of his rope, man needs to lay down and be taken care of," Nathan said, making an unashamed I-told-you-this-would-happen face.

Ezra listed heavily to the side. Josiah grasped a handful of black shirt-front, righted him gently. Holding him in place he clapped a palm against a pale cheek. Ezra' s eyelids opened a disgruntled slit.

"Don't think he's quite with us."

As if to illustrate the point, he let go with both hands and Ezra listed sideways again, this time with a speed that took a dive from Josiah to correct.

Vin frowned up at the gathering clouds from where he sat. "Need to move or we'll get caught out." He vaulted to the ground, came and knelt in front of Ezra where he was now slumped and tapped him on the leg.

"Come on, Ezra, you're still with us, I know you are. You've come so far, pard, just need to git you a little further. Need to get ya on ya feet, back on your horse."

"Trust me, brother, everything will look so much better when you're home." Josiah peered at Ezra, tutted. "Really not sure he's got the legs, Vin." He bent down and ducked under a shoulder, motioned to his mount. "I'll double. Help me get him up."

It was unsettling, somehow. Ezra'd been keeping the spaces between himself and the rest wide as he could without causing Chris to fulminate about safety. Now he couldn't have been pressed so snug against other human beings if he'd tried.

JD, for one, was glad to see him secure. But they'd gotten so used to Ezra's desire for distance - could understand it at some instinctive level that scared each one of them to the core - that he felt an odd stab of pain on his behalf. Looking up and down the line, he saw he wasn't the only one. He moved to pony up Ezra's horse, cast a half look at Matthew Bracken hunched in his frock-coat. The man seemed, for the first time, exhausted.

* * *

The rain was sheeting by the time they were spraying mud left and right along the main thoroughfare of Four Corners. The bad weather had caught up with them several hours' out but it was welcome as it finally defeated Bracken. He was as dripping and morose as his companions when they were finally behind bars, him and Link in one cell and Wilton in the other.

Deputy Connor, a grizzled contemporary of Judge Travis, was pleased to see the resident peacekeepers return. He seemed more than ready to bid farewell to the muddy town he'd somehow found himself in.

"Hell," he said, as Chris led the way through the door, the prisoners behind him, Buck and JD at the rear. He swung his feet off the desk where they'd been crossed. "Looks like you picked up some gifts on ya travels. Who have we here?"

Chris, rain dripping down the back of his neck and pissing him off, damped down the unpleasant twitch he felt to see someone sitting at the sheriff's desk that wasn't one of them. He did no more than nod at him in acknowledgment.

"Judge still in town? Needs to know we got Matthew Bracken in custody."

Connor looked at them, eyes bugging. "Left this morning. Had business in Denver."

"Glad to see you ain't busy," Buck said.

"Your town has been exemplary, Mr. ... ?"

"Buck," said Buck.

Connor sidled out of the chair, began to unfix the badge from his lapel. "I'm glad to see you gents, I cannot lie. You gonna need any help with these boys?"

"We can manage," JD told him stiffly as the keys turned in the lock.

"You're in charge, JD," Chris said. "Headin' to the saloon, Deputy?"

"Better make it quick." Connor stifled a yawn. "I'm looking to leave tonight."

"You gonna give us dry duds?" Wilton growled from his cell.

Chris didn't even turn his head as he went for the door. "No."

Connor raised his brows. "These bad boys given you trouble, Larabee?"

"You could say."

When the door banged shut, Connor reached for his hat. "Well. If you gents don't need me no more ..."

"We're good." Buck had prowled to Bracken and Chain's cell, and was peering in at them with hostility. "Don't get too comfortable. You ain't gonna be here long."

"Why?" Bracken muttered from his full-length sprawl on the right-hand cot. "You plannin' on lynchin' us?"

Buck didn't answer, but he caught the doubtful look Deputy Connor gave him as he slipped out the door.

* * *

Ezra had been mostly conscious as he was pulled from Josiah's horse. He'd improved enough over the last few hours to attempt the steps up to Nathan's unaided, although his feet slithered drunkenly in the wet. Josiah and Nathan had gone ahead and Vin was hovering behind. They were still only halfway up when Chris came striding over from the jail-house. He clomped past Vin, grabbed the front of the duster and pulled Ezra the rest of the way up. They were all soaked to the skin. While Nathan delivered commands in short, clipped tones, Ezra sat on the bed shaking with cold. Every so often there was a stinging swat at the hands that crowded around to divest him of his clothes.

As the layers of damp wrapping were peeled away, a whole map was revealed across Ezra's back and round his ribs. A cartography of violence and degradation, ugly patches of flayed skin and the vivid colors of deep-tissue bruising wherever they looked. A round, red wound in the muscle of one shoulder showed where teeth had broken the skin. It didn't even look like a wound. More like an indelible mark, something permanent, to be carried forever. The sight drained any remaining spirit from the room, plunged it into silence.

"Sonofabitch," Chris said at last. "How in the hell'd he keep going?" He glanced down as Ezra's head lolled on to his sleeve.

"Grit." It was Vin that offered this up from somewhere behind Chris's back.

"And then some." That was Nathan.

Chris was grateful they'd acknowledged it as such, not just put it down to willfulness as usual. Ezra could certainly do that, too, but seemed he was fighting his corner here with something more like brazen guts. Chris rubbed the back of the sodden head absently. The weight of it was trapping a nerve in his forearm. He grimaced but didn't move.

"You stay right where you are," Vin told him. "He looks kind of comfortable."

"Bad fever?" Chris asked Nathan. He could feel heat under the cold, didn't know if it scared him or not.

"Man's done in." Nathan was almost resentful of the question. "Could be exhaustion, could be infection someplace. If there is, I just hope to God it's not inside."

"Now's the time to see, to properly see," Josiah suggested quietly, but Nathan shook his head.

Chris wondered when exactly the healer had changed his tune, when exactly he'd decided it wouldn't be right to make a move on Ezra without his permission. Maybe Vin had got at him.

Josiah seemed to wonder that, too, and cleared his throat gravely.

"Might save his life."

Nathan bristled. "Don't tell me how to go about my work."

"I'm not sure Ezra's sensibilities are the important thing right now." Josiah had his preaching voice on. It was the wisest and most comforting voice imaginable when it fit the situation. At the moment, it just seemed to irritate the hell out of Nathan.

"Damnit, Josiah, you looked in his eyes lately?"

"All right, all right." Chris intervened swiftly. The tension was thick enough to choke on. It seemed to come and go in waves, forever shifting them off steady ground. He figured it was going to be up to Nathan. Whatever he felt he should or shouldn't do was up to him, and wasn't for them to witness.

Nathan tied up the ends of the wrapping before they all moved to get Ezra banked chest-first against a wall of pillows. Chris felt some regret at shifting him from his temporary resting-place, realized that for a few minutes at least he'd been doing something more useful than spitting blood.

"You need help?" He thought he'd ask the question, even though he was pretty sure of the answer.

"I can manage."

Chris stood up stiffly. "Well I suggest we all get the hell out of here. Like the doc said, man's had enough. Last thing we should be doing is standing around staring. One of you needs to get fed and cleaned up, take over from JD. I don't want that boy having to listen to Bracken's bullshit for too long."

Vin was the first to move. "I'll fetch up some grub and hot coffee, Nathan. What else does Ezra need?"

"Peace and quiet." Nathan motioned them away. "Go on, git. And don't none of the rest of you come bothering me with chills. Go get dry and warm, I ain't got space for any more invalids."

After the creak and shuffle of their exit, the door was gently closed.

* * *

Mary Travis, swathed in a slicker that came down to her ankles, was standing under cover outside the bank when Chris reached the street. The garment had belonged to Stephen Travis, Chris was sure, and that made him sad for her in a way that also made him sad for himself. Instead of following the other three in the direction of the saloon he stopped where he was and waited. She began to walk towards him and he acknowledged her with a touch to his dripping hat.

"Mr. Larabee," she said, coming up close. "Glad to see you home safe."

_Home safe._

He didn't answer straight away, just gave her a half-hearted nod, indicated that they should walk together.

"Judge will be pleased to hear it too," she went on. "You might send him a wire when you can."

"Sure. Seems like town's been quiet."

"It's always quiet when Buck and JD aren't here." Chris didn't know exactly why, but her use of their given names lent a warmth to his stomach that none of the rest of him could feel.

"Deputy Connor managed?"

"He did a fine job of sitting in the jail."

Chris nodded again. They stepped up on to the boardwalk outside the Clarion.

"You are all safe?" Her eyes strayed back towards the steps by the Livery.

"Nothing serious," Chris found himself saying. "Ezra's maybe taken a chill." He frowned. "And you will too, Mary, if you stand out here much longer."

"I was dry only ten minutes ago, Mr. Larabee. You look like you've been wet for hours. Take your own advice. I just wanted to welcome you back. People are pleased to know you're here."

As usual, Chris didn't know how to react to such a revelation. It was gratifying, he supposed. Mighty odd, though. She smiled at him before she went in, as if she could read his thoughts.

"Oh and Mr. Larabee? Who are the prisoners you brought back with you? I'm sure to be asked."

Chris would dearly have liked not to tell. But he had experience of Mary Travis' bold championing of truth and justice and didn't want to cross her. Despite her sweetness, she'd make some man a hell of a feisty wife one of these days. He was kind of glad he wasn't looking for a wife, feisty or any other kind.

"Man named Matt Bracken, two others who rode with him. Came on them outside Sharpeville, had no choice but to bring them in. You could do us a favor, Mary. Don't let folks get worked up over it. We'll have 'em out of here soon as we can."

"Oh my God," Mary said. "That man is ... notorious. I've read about him."

Of course Mary Travis had read about him. Hell, she'd probably written about him.

"Notorious or not, that's the last of 'em. Folks can rest easy. There's no-one comin to break 'em out. Soon as the Judge can arrange it, they'll be on their way to Yuma."

"Well thank goodness. Just knowing he's sitting in the jail will frighten people terribly."

"That's why I need you, Mary. The voice of calm." He still couldn't quite manage a smile.

"I'll do my best. Will Nathan be needing assistance? I can guess what a grouchy invalid Mr. Standish will make."

"No," Chris said, a little too quickly. His tone seemed to take her aback. "No, that's kind. But no. Like I said, it's not serious."

"All right." She pushed at her door doubtfully. "And you, Mr. Larabee, where will you get dry?"

"Saloon," he said and was quite glad when a flicker of disapproval passed over her face. At least temperance would keep her busy for a while. He nearly got up a smile, felt the tug only when he was out of her sight and walking across the street.

* * *

Left alone, Nathan did what he could. He was cold and damp, wanted to eat hot food, sleep for days, but he couldn't. Not quite yet.

First off, he was pretty sure Ezra had been bleeding. He must have been. On and off for days probably. Stood to reason. Nathan had pushed salve and squares of cut-up bandage in his hands at every stop. When he'd asked the question straight out, Ezra had deflected, lied or said nothing.

When the sounds of boots clumping down steps had receded, Nathan moved the lamp closer to the bed, drew his professional persona on like a pair of gloves.

He already knew about the bruising on Ezra's spine, the swathes of purple and black melded across the lumbar region, fanned out around the ribs. As he folded back the sheet, the lamplight shone on what had been hidden up to now. Livid areas of discoloration on the sacrum and buttocks were interwoven with deep scratches, a lacework bloom of ruptured blood-vessels. The trail of abuse wound its way inward to the sitz bones and beyond. Some vicious combination of power and impotence had made Camino's men hit out hard, punishing Ezra for their own wretchedness.

Nathan took a deep breath. Such spite and despair lay behind those marks, every one of them. He needed to let the image of Ezra chained and helpless dissolve from before his eyes before he could carry on. His heart was thumping, and something yanked on the back of his throat so hard he felt like he couldn't swallow.

An emotional response. Such things didn't help anyone and really Nathan felt he should know better.

He steeled himself once more. Then he ghosted hesitant fingers as far as he dared until Ezra moaned like he was being skewered in the gut. Nathan stopped.

"I'm sorry for this, real sorry."

He blew out another breath slowly, brows contracting.

Despite the pain of a protesting ribcage and what had to be the relentless agony of riding horseback, Ezra had evidently persisted in taking as much care of himself as he could. Nathan didn't think any of the others would have done so much. It hurt to wonder how he'd come to be so damn efficient.

"Swear you might even have a few brains after all. Under all that sorry bullshit you spout."

Only a fully intimate probe would confirm life-threatening damage, but the most recent blood loss looked light. There was no suppuration that Nathan could see, and he allowed himself a shaky breath of relief.

"That's all, I won't ... ain't going no further."

Ezra maybe wouldn't have known, was too far down in his feverish pit to register any intrusion, but Nathan had an idea the sub-conscious mind could be sharp as a tack.

He cleaned and soothed and dressed every hurt he could see. Didn't like the look of the bite-mark, figured he'd need to keep an eye on it and that Ezra was going to pretend it didn't exist. Finally, he maneuvered him off the bank of pillows, slid underclothes over his feet and up to his waist. Nathan wouldn't have him waking up naked, even though the skin felt warm, so he shuffled him into the starched, cotton folds of a nightshirt too. It wasn't easy dressing an unconscious man, but Nathan had technique and muscle to spare. All of them dropped weight fast when they were on the trail and God knows Ezra hadn't been keeping down enough to fatten up a jackrabbit.

"Just prayin' now, prayin' there ain't no damage I can't see. We gotta get that fever down, get you sleeping easy. Then I'm going to leave you alone, I know that's what you want."

Instinct told Nathan that Ezra didn't want to be touched anymore, not at all. Instinct also made him give comfort any way he could. He straightened the covers, leaned a little closer and spoke from the heart.

"You're home now. Hope you know that. Home safe."


	7. Chapter 7

_Some folks are wise and some are otherwise_ ~Tobias Smollett

* * *

In the morning, although it was Sunday, Chris had the telegraph office opened, especially for him. He knew it wouldn't endear him to most of town, but that was just too bad. On the best of days he didn't much feel like doing things by the book just to keep folk sweet, never mind now.

The wire he sent to Orrin Travis was to the point.

_In custody STOP Matthew Bracken STOP Lincoln Chain STOP George Wilton STOP Transport soonest STOP C. J. Larabee._

A response arrived twenty-four hours later, when he was feeling clean and well-fed for the first time in weeks. The Judge's communication was more fulsome but equally brief.

_Good work STOP Detail October 15 STOP Governor impressed STOP Hon Orrin Travis._

"Wait, we gotta listen to Bracken for another whole week?" Buck complained.

Chris, who wished more of a weight was sliding from his shoulders at the prospect of soldiers coming to transport the trio to permanent incarceration, clapped him on the back.

"We'll take it in shifts."

"Not all of us will take it in goddamn shifts. I mean, come on. You can't let Ezra within half a street of that maniac."

Chris felt powerful irritation at Buck's assumption of thoughtlessness, barked back a reply. "All right, Buck, I get it. Chrissake, Ezra's off duty. Of course. What do you take me for?"

"Nothin'" Buck said sourly. "I don't take you for nothin."

And so it went on.

* * *

Only a handful of worshippers came to church that Sabbath morning. Seemed the congregation had gotten out of the habit while the preacher'd been away. Nathan was the only one of Josiah's fellow regulators to show his face, which wasn't a surprise. JD could occasionally be expected to don a good shirt and present himself, clean-shaven and hat in hands. Not this Sunday.

Josiah didn't preach much of a sermon. He told a Cherokee story about wolves instead, stood behind his lectern looking unapproachable enough that nobody came to shake his hand afterwards like they might normally have done.

Nathan remained with clasped hands and closed eyes once the church had emptied, as if troubled by something that could only be addressed at the spot in which he was sitting. That was unusual. One of the many things Josiah liked about Nathan Jackson was that, despite everything, he didn't struggle with God. Seemed to be on good terms, to have his rights and wrongs sorted out. Josiah didn't sit with him, but climbed up a ladder and proceeded to scrape old plaster from a wall, a job he'd been doing before they left town. He felt a powerful need to be busy. Very busy.

Eventually he heard the shuffle of movement down below.

"He's going to need someone to talk to."

That was all Nathan said, when he finally got to his feet.

"Door's always open."

Nathan came and stood at the foot of the ladder. "That all you got?"

"If it's what he wants, he'll find his way here."

"Well, I'm figuring he'll think he wants whiskey. Just that."

Josiah paused in his scraping. "It has a place," he observed, and then relented. "Don't worry, brother Nathan. I'll be talking to him."

"Well I hope you'll find the right words."

Josiah wasn't at all sure. He felt just about empty. Ezra had shivered against him those last hours back to town, juddering in and out of awareness. Josiah had held on fast, wishing for words. All that came to him was a question he'd very often directed to the deity and never received a satisfactory answer to. Rather than say it out loud he'd stayed silent, concentrating on the heartbeat cantering against his chest instead.

_How could you let this happen?_

Josiah wasn't so very interested in God's position on the question this time. What he really wanted was Ezra's answer.

He didn't think he'd be able to rest until he got it.

* * *

Ezra himself had only confused recollections of the last few hours into Four Corners. Of heat and damp and cold, of being pressed too close to another body and not being able to escape.

Damn. Hated that. Wanted to crawl away and be free of other limbs. Wasn't even sure if it was dream or memory.

Then there were the hands, pawing at him. Always pawing at him. Clothes being stripped from every part. The bite of chilly air on exposed skin. A pain inside, although he couldn't quite figure out where.

By the time he woke up, every inch of him, from his hair to his toe-nails, throbbed. He was dry, nauseous, wanted a bath hot enough to scald. Although he supposed he should feel hunger, he didn't. What he thought he would get out of bed for was liquor, preferably too much, too quick.

After a minute or two getting accustomed to the fact of being in a bed and not on the hard ground, a familiar treacly heat formed in the base of his throat. Ezra knew the sensation well. It was one he typically dispelled with a brisk change of activity or location. Trapped here on the despicably uncomfortable mattress that was supposed to help nurse the bedridden back to health, there was no escape.

It was choking, this desperation not to be alone. This foolhardy desperation to be wrapped in someone's warm embrace, so hard, so god-awful tight, that he would know it was for real. Hell, to at least believe that it was out there somewhere. While Maude occasionally liked to peck his cheek, ruffle his hair, perhaps cup his jaw appraisingly in her smooth hand, Ezra had no actual memory of her arms. Even lovers of the past had left no lasting impression of affection. Most of the time just the opposite in fact. Hell, he could certainly pick 'em. Maybe that was why Matt Bracken ...

_No. Stop that._

He pushed himself to sitting and his injured ribs hummed.

"Damn and hell and ... damn."

One form of pain did not cancel out another, it seemed.

And wanting what clearly wasn't meant to be was always pointless.

The observation was well made, because at the same time as he yearned almost to the point of grief for such intense human contact, Ezra was damn sure that he never wanted anyone to lay so much as a finger on him ever again.

He jumped when the door opened, felt his heart start to race.

Nathan was stopped on the threshold. He was carrying a cup and bowl. "Your ugly picture's a sight for sore eyes." He couldn't keep the pleasure off his face, or the rebuke. "You wouldn't be thinking of trying to get out that bed now, would you?"

Ezra didn't reply straight off, just eased himself back against the head of the bed. He looked suspiciously at the cup and bowl which were laid down on the night-stand.

Nathan was breezy. "It's nothin' nasty. Hot broth. Need it, ya hollow as a drum."

"You're not feedin' me."

Despite the relief of company, the flare of hope he felt to see Nathan Jackson in the doorway, Ezra wasn't about to show too much appreciation. Last thing he felt like was having anything thrown back in his face, which is what he assumed would happen if he showed even a hint of need.

"Too damn right," Nathan informed him. Another slight smile. "I'll just leave it here for you to play around with then. You need the tea too. All of it. Didn't make it just for you to dribble down ya chin or spit up neither."

"Do please refrain from browbeatin' me and hand it over."

"Fever ran its course in a day." Nathan picked up the bowl and held it out. "You strong enough to manage?"

Ezra's brows drew down. "I wager I am strong enough to finish it, be dressed and out of here within five minutes, Mr. Jackson."

Nathan raised his eyebrows in counterpoint. He shook his head pityingly. "I think my money's safe. You ain't gettin' up, fool. I need to see you rest another day or so, need to make sure you're healing up."

Ezra paused around the cup.

Nathan was calm, as if he understood the hesitation. "You don't want me pokin' and proddin' you. I get that. Figure you know what's happened to you all right."

"I know."

"And I seen how you took care a' yourself."

Ezra gulped a couple of nervous mouthfuls. "I don't care to know what you've seen."

"Just tellin' you."

A slight flush began to crawl up his cheeks. "I don't care to know, Nathan. I don't care to be informed. I don't care to ..." He trailed into silence.

Nathan appeared to choose his next words carefully. He was soothing, maybe overly so, which at least had the effect of making Ezra irritated, gave him some other reason for the burning spots of emotion on his face than humiliation. "All right. But ... even when it don't pain you so much, there could be ... well there's things I could do to make sure you ..."

Ezra narrowed his eyes, leaned to replace the cup. The matter of fact approach was a surprising tonic to his jangled emotions, except he felt much too tired to engage in the requisite sparring.

"If you're suggesting a mercury bath or any other form of lunatic skulduggery, then you may think again. I will not be tortured in the name of experimental science."

Nathan brushed him aside. "Men like that ... doing things like that ... it can kill you."

Ezra let loose a humorless laugh. "Damn uncomfortable too."

Nathan sat on the side of the bed with a sigh. "What the hell were you thinking? What possessed you?"

Ezra attempted a little scoot backwards but there was nowhere to go. "To what are you referring?"

"You allowed yourself to be dragged out of that goddamn barn and ... hell, Ezra."

"Hell indeed." Ezra automatically tried to push backwards again, but again found nowhere to go. "Still, you'll observe that I was not killed." He rubbed the back of his hand to and fro across his forehead. "And for a young man like Mr. Dunne to be ... well really, I believe I had no choice."

"Saw it on the plantation," Nathan said heavily. "More than once."

"I imagine you did."

"Saw a man take his own life 'cause he was so ashamed."

"Really."

"And like I said ... reckon you suffered somethin' like this before."

Ezra's hand dropped and his voice came out in a snap. "Please indulge me, Mr. Jackson. Ah do not ask you to tell stories of violence and abuse from the past and I would be obliged if you would pay me a similar courtesy."

Nathan sat quiet. He didn't look at him for a while although he seemed aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Seemed to realize Ezra was desperate for him to move away. Eventually he stood up again.

"Still feeling fevered?"

Ezra rocked his head back against the headboard with a thump. "Just tired."

"Well, ya look kinda peaked but at least you ain't ravin'."

"I would like to vacate your premises."

"All in good time, Ezra, all in good time."

"This afternoon."

"It's already afternoon. Eat up."

"This evening."

"Tomorrow morning. Eat up, I said, don't just worry it."

"This evening it is, then."

Ezra stirred the spoon in the bowl, blinked against the tug of sleep, tried to raise it to his lips and couldn't.

"Here," Nathan said, suddenly close by again. "Let me."

* * *

Mary Travis made herself thoroughly queasy going through the shelves of old newspapers and periodicals at the back of the Clarion office. She'd decided she was sure to be asked what trouble Larabee and his men had gotten mixed up in this time, so she needed to be prepared. And she was, in any case, more comfortable being a researcher and archivist than she really was being an editor. Sometimes she could feel quite irritated with Stephen for having left her with his job to do and no line of people outside the door eager to help.

The archive was all her own work and she'd been proud of it long before random violence had left her with a newspaper to run. It was extensive for what it was, well ordered and neat. It gave her pleasure to know it was there, even when she didn't utilize it. Today, in a bid for understanding, she made the mistake of reading every word of every article about the careers of Camino and Bracken she could find, factual and sensationalist alike.

And in the end she decided that most of it she really ought to keep to herself.

People didn't need to know about such things.

She peered from her window, eyes tired, watched Josiah Sanchez walk across the street to the jail, pause outside to talk to Chris. Saw them look across at the jail, talk some more. It didn't seem like Mr. Larabee and his men were quite themselves. Mary found it hard to put her finger on it but some manner of dysfunction was in operation. They weren't right.

She would have expected JD to disappear off to the Wells' farm for an hour or two, and he did. She wouldn't have expected him not to reappear, however. And she would have expected Buck Wilmington to be seen in a sunny spot on some boardwalk near the saloon with a mug of beer in one hand. He was nowhere to be seen. Nathan Jackson's absence could be explained, she supposed, although she did wish Mr. Larabee hadn't lied to her. Someone had already commented that Mr. Standish looked a lot worse off than chilled when they'd ridden in. Meanwhile, Mr. Larabee and Mr. Tanner were prowling around like they considered their own friends more trouble than the prisoners.

"Is it true?" John Morgan from the Post Office asked her when he delivered ink, paper and string later in the day. "Do we really have Mad Dog Matt Bracken sitting in our jail?"

Mary had told two people. Neither of whom she considered blabbermouths.

"It's true, John, but it won't be for long."

"Lord save us, Miz Travis. You any idea what that man is capable of?"

"He's behind bars, John."

Morgan looked curiously at the mound of newsprint on Mary's desk. Evidently saw Bracken's name reflected back at him. "He's a murdering cur. Strung up a lawman and his family in Boulder six months ago. You got that story in your collection? Things he did to that man 'fore he killed him ... unspeakable acts, Miz Travis."

The editorializing in the newspapers had been universal. Now John Morgan was doing it. Probably to spare her blushes.

"He's facing justice now."

"Terrible, sinful things. I ain't too happy a man like that's sittin' just over the way."

"We've had murderers in the jail before and Mr. Larabee will guard him well."

"Murderers, yes. Goddamn perverts is a different thing, Mary." He looked embarrassed. "An' I'm sorry for my cussin'. Just ... nothin' makes me more sick to my stomach than a ..."

"Than a murderer?"

He looked surprised. A chill pricked under her lace collar. If she wasn't much mistaken, Morgan thought that disemboweling was far from the worse fate that had befallen some of Bracken's victims. "Please don't go spreading it around, John."

"Why'd they bring him here anyhow?"

"Because it was the right thing to do. Think how much safer we are now that he's behind bars. Now please. I have work to do."

Mary wished she'd never looked through the newspapers.

Wished Mr. Larabee wasn't so good at his job.

* * *

Chris and Buck passed Ezra walking from the bath-house to the saloon towards dusk. He was dressed in a brown canvas jacket that looked like it belonged to Nathan, a shapeless sort of garment that broadened his shoulders and hid everything except the holster on his hip. Underneath they caught a flash of a neat, pressed blue shirt buttoned to the neck, a plain black vest and no tie.

"Mr. Wilmington, Mr. Larabee." He tipped his hat when he saw them, went on walking before they could get a good look at his face. The familiar scent of a freshly-preened Ezra wafted past. Pomade and shaving-soap.

They watched him right over the street and in the batwings.

"Least he's on his feet," Chris observed, not liking how disturbed he felt at seeing Ezra attired in such an anonymous fashion.

"Shit. Nothin' keeps him down." Buck didn't sound very impressed.

Chris considered this. Stole a look at his old friend's face. "Buck?"

Buck pushed off the rail he'd been leaning on, looked like he wanted to pace. "He's a piece of work, Chris, swear to God. Just can't stop thinkin' on it is all."

Chris was patient. "Thinkin on what, big feller?"

Buck made a tentative few steps up the boardwalk and then back. He waved a vague hand in the direction of out of town. "It was nearly JD, Chris. You know that? Camino had it all figured out I reckon. Bastards got as far as getting their hands on him, and they'd 'a shot any of us that moved. But Ezra ... shit ... he didn't even try anythin' else, didn't tell 'em they were sonsofbitches and to leave the kid the hell alone. He just ..." Buck gestured again.

"What did you want him to try, Buck?"

A helpless shrug. "I don't know. Not what he did."

Chris wanted Buck to tell the story. He wanted to know what had been said. But at the same time, he didn't, he really didn't.

"What he do?"

Buck made a noise like there were really no adequate words. Like it was too far-fetched, something that ... didn't happen. "He about gave himself up, I'm telling you, without one second thought. Said they should pick someone who could ... make it good. That's what he said, he opened that goddamn smart mouth of his and I swear I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He just goddamn asked for it."

"To keep the kid safe."

"Yes to keep the kid safe." Buck resumed pacing, then stopped, looked to Chris as if for help, validation of some kind.

This was the first time any of them had said a word about the sequence of events - apart from some vague mutter from JD that he couldn't remember, "it just happened". Out on the trail Chris hadn't pressed them. He'd been too damn twitchy about Ezra's condition, about how the hell they were going to get home. One unwelcome thought had come to him, though, slithering out of the murk. That Ezra was ... well, he was just the type men like that'd choose. A delicately-handsome man, Chris supposed, if you were inclined to that way of thinking, tough enough to be interesting and certainly the kind of yap on him that'd draw attention. But then he recalled the first encounter with Bracken and Camino, the way JD now looked at Ezra like he was scared and awed and angry all at the same time. And that had made him figure things a whole different way.

Shit but it didn't make it hurt any the less hearing it from Buck. He swallowed, not prepared to address it head on. "Take it easy, we got him now. He'll be all right."

"Would you be all right, if ...?" Buck stopped, made another wild gesture. "Yeah, but damn ... would you have even done what he did?" He obviously thought he knew the answer and shook his head. "Hell knows I'm thankful JD was spared, cuz I couldn't have stood it. Swear to God if it'd been him, I don't know what I ... " He trailed off, drew a hand across his eyes. "But damn, Chris, I keep comin' back ta the same thing. Why in God's name would Ezra even _think_ of it?"

"I don't know. I don't know, Buck. But Ezra's ... he's not like ... he'll be all right."

Chris didn't even know if he thought this was true. Maybe he just hoped it was. Lord knows he'd fallen foul of Ezra's contrary nature often enough. Maybe he just hoped it would work in all their favors this time.

"He's not like what? Not like us? What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Chris wasn't trying to unleash the pent-up fury in Buck but he didn't seem able to tame it either, couldn't seem to stop saying the wrong thing.

"Doesn't mean anything." It was true, as well. Ezra had always been beyond his capacity to define or explain.

"God damn but you talk up a steaming pile of bullcrap sometimes, Chris Larabee."

"I ain't the one blamin' Ezra for something he didn't have no control over."

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

Chris took a breath. "I can guess you'd feel bad because you couldn't help him, Buck. Can guess you'd feel real bad, even if there was nothin' you coulda done. But feelin' bad cause you think he brought it down on himself. That sounds like shit to me."

"It was a bitching stupid thing to do."

"He was protectin' JD."

"I know that. But hell, Chris ... it wasn't something that just ... came out. It was like he knew." Buck stared over in the direction of the saloon. "Like he knew and didn't care."

"That's what he does. Can convince the birds out the goddamn the trees if he wants to, if it's important enough. You wouldn'ta had him do any different would you, Buck?"

"I ... wouldn'ta had that happen to JD. Not for the fuckin' world."

"Well ... reckon Ezra wonders why he's bein' treated like a goddamn pariah then. Why don't you go talk to him?"

Buck kept staring over at the saloon. "I will. 'Course, I will," he muttered eventually. He seemed to struggle with himself. "I mean, I owe him, damnit. I owe him for the kid. But it's just that ... now ain't the right time. He looks like he wants ta be ... left alone."

Chris screwed up his face. "Ain't the right bitching time, Buck?"

Buck wiped his hand over his eyes again, like he had a headache.

"Can't help lookin' at him and ... and thinkin' ..." He swung around abruptly, heaved his shoulders in an almighty shrug. "Just ain't the right time." Then he jumped down off the boardwalk and began striding away towards the bank.

"We're not finished with this!" Chris couldn't help shouting after him. If Buck heard, he didn't react.

Shit. This wasn't working. Mary Travis might have a vaguely unsettled feeling that things weren't normal. She'd likely put it down to the eternal peculiarity of men's behavior unless proved otherwise. But as each stitch popped, revealing more of the wound that lay beneath, Chris felt it like a physical pain. He wondered what he had to do to damn well get them healed.

Or if that was even possible.

* * *

By the following evening, normality had been resumed. Such as it was.

Supposing Chris could stop them bickering for long enough, the regular patrolling that seemed to keep the citizenry appeased was back to being the order of the day. He said they needed to keep a high profile because town was bubbling. Since they'd arrived home there'd been little on the lips of the populace except the reputation of the latest residents of Four Corners' jail. Chris was already tired of being asked if it was true, what they'd heard.

"Look busy and look mean," he told Vin and JD, the first ones out.

In the general spirit of busy, mean peacekeeping, Vin and JD did their circuit and more. Arrived back late enough that the livery boys were long gone and Yosemite dozing in his room. That was all right. The seven of them had their own rhythm and routine in town that was quite separate to the rest of the population. It was one of the things that kept Vin from getting too twitchy.

He was glad to be out and about with JD. Apart from the fact that he liked the kid, he was worried about him.

And what was worrying him about JD, was worrying him even more about Ezra. Far as he could tell, the two of them hadn't exchanged a single word for days. Nobody had exactly been comfortable shooting the breeze lately, but even Buck had gotten around to at least opening his mouth. About breakfast, or beer, or ... something. Vin figured JD felt like shit. Figured he was guilty and scared, not sure how the world was turning anymore. Didn't mean he could get away with silence though.

Vin was an expert on silence. He knew it would eat the kid alive.

The horses were sweaty, needed care. Vin hung his saddle, rubbed his horse down with the blanket underneath, tossed it into a corner. JD found him a curry brush, and one for himself.

"Do the job well and they'll repay ya," Vin said and JD made a face at him.

"That's what you said last time."

"It was true last time as well."

"It's all right, Vin. My Ma taught me if a job's worth doing it's worth doing well."

Vin laughed low. "Reckon that's what you're doing out west?"

"Tryin'."

"She'd be right proud of ya."

JD shook himself slightly. For a while there was silence except for the rhythmic sound of bristle against horseflesh, the occasional nicker or shifting hoof.

"So when exactly were you plannin on saying something?" Vin carried on with what he was doing, didn't look up from the stall. JD stopped, as if he felt a flutter of nerves.

"Sayin' what? You mean ta Ezra?"

"Of course ta Ezra."

"Well I don't know ... I wasn't plannin' ... hell, what would I say? What the hell would anyone say?"

Vin went on brushing, steadfast, still didn't look up. "Seems to me there's some word needed. If the man'd taken a bullet for ya, you wouldn't've damn well left his side. This ain't no different."

JD dropped his brush on the ground, clenched his fists. "Yeah, well it may not seem no different to you, but it sure as hell feels different to me."

Vin straightened up then, laid his brush on the top plank of the stall. "Never thought you were a coward, JD."

JD began to redden slightly and Vin wasn't sure if it was shame or anger. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say to him."

"It don't matter."

"Well hell, what do you know anyhow? You didn't hear him, you didn't hear what he said. You weren't even goddamn there!"

Vin frowned. "No, I didn't hear what he said. But I know he did what he had to ... to keep you from getting hurt."

"He didn't hafta do that. It wasn't right, it was ... I wouldn't have done it. Not for him, not for any of you."

"Is that so?"

JD ran a hand down the back of his head. "It's not right," he persisted. "Man don't ask for ... for that. Not for anything."

"Well, good to know we can rely on ya, JD."

"Come on, Vin!"

"No." Vin came out of the stall. He suddenly felt twenty kinds of pissed. "You come on. You come on and grow up. You need to. You need to see this for what it is and get your ass on over to Ezra to tell him you appreciate what he did, what he put himself through. An' if you can't say you'd'a done the same for him, that's your affair. But you can't leave it. You can't say nothin'. They could've damn well killed him and you can't fuckin' say nothin'!"

It was a lot of words at once for Vin. Anger didn't usually come out in words with him. It usually came out in actions and disappearances. The words were as much a shock to him as JD, but the kid still didn't want to hear it.

"I'm sick of this," he said.

"What you sick of, JD?" Vin was surprised he could still speak at all. The rampant emotion of his last speech had made him feel like his throat had just about closed up. He thought he knew what JD was sick of anyway. Kid was probably sick of Ezra for having crossed some goddamn line JD didn't even know could be crossed. Of Vin for being so goddamn sure. Of himself, most of all.

"I have to get outa here," JD said, and he clearly didn't mean the Livery. The words seemed easier than Vin imagined they could be.

"JD ..."

"Damn, Vin. This has ruined everything. I mean, it's just not ... I can't ... I'm gettin' the hell out."

"You don't hafta ... ah shit."

He watched JD streak away, knowing the kid felt he didn't want to stay in town a second more. The feeling was as familiar to Vin as breathing. He'd never worked out how he countered it, or even why.

Slumping back against the rough wood of the stall, Vin dropped his head. He'd put a deal of thought into this. Had picked his moment. And hell but it looked like he'd messed up. Despite his best intentions, he'd gone and gotten himself all riled up before he knew it.

Just seemed to prove there was a reason he didn't always have too much to say.

Vin guessed that, for all his careful considering, he hadn't done shit to get things right side up.

* * *

Days passed, each one long. Except for Ezra they watched the prisoners in shifts, one of them always spending the night. Bracken wasn't saying much, and if he did it wasn't to Tanner or Larabee, both of whom he genuinely seemed to fear. The gag had been abandoned because Chris wasn't quite ready to let him starve to death and taking it on and off was more trouble than it was worth. The less physical contact any of them had with the man, the happier Chris was.

The rain fell, kept them in the saloon if they weren't in the jail.

It felt like they were teetering on the edge of something. That there was a long, hard drop if they were to lose their footing.

After three days, word came that the detail would be delayed. Chris doubted his ability to keep a lid on the stew. He wasn't sure what would happen even when Bracken and the others had been disposed of. Seemed to him there was an unstoppable tide of departures about to begin.

It appeared Buck and JD couldn't be civil to one another, their easy connection unwinding in a messy tangle of misunderstandings. Seemed they both thought the other wasn't doing something they damn well should be doing. Or maybe it was the other way about. But, since neither of them would come right out and say anything coherent about it, nobody was any the wiser. All they knew was that JD was ready to go.

Uninvited, Ezra went to talk to Josiah. It wasn't clear if this was to seek comfort or to challenge him in some way. Certainly Josiah had been pointedly keeping his distance at a time when it might be supposed he'd be doing the opposite. Whatever Ezra's motive, he unwisely took a bottle of whiskey with him and when scolded for the insult, threw it the length of the aisle and smashed the gothic-arched window behind the lectern. Nathan was furious, but not with Ezra.

Then, Buck and Ezra had an altercation over something that appeared to have to do with money. But it wasn't. Witnesses observed them in the street outside the saloon, were unclear about the exact words Wilmington uttered, although not about the way he'd flung wide his arms asking for enlightenment. Or about the unceremonious shove Standish had given him as he walked away.

"I hope you ain't said what I think you said," Chris challenged Buck when he arrived too late. Buck admitted nothing, just retreated to the arms of an old lover. Ezra had already retreated back into the saloon.

"What was that?" Nathan demanded, finally reaching the scene after having observed it from above the Livery, the body language and gestures filling him with gloom and misgiving.

"Some shit," Chris said unhelpfully.

"Get Vin to talk to 'em," Nathan advised. "He's the only one with his head on straight."

Vin, who was clearly battling his extreme desire to disappear into the wilderness, rain be damned, wasn't sure about his new role as mediator. But he trailed both of them for a while. Spoke to Buck through a window and found him unrepentant.

"Ezra made it plain he didn't need to hear from me, Vin. So that's fine. He won't hear from me."

"Buck said Ezra said that?" Chris asked.

"Yup."

Vin turned his attention to Ezra and eventually fetched Chris to help stop the breaking of any more glass.

"Bin throwing whiskey down his throat for three hours or more. May be why he got proddy with Buck. Think he's about at the passing out stage, else he might be ready to cause trouble."

Hell. Nothing but trouble and grief, from one end of the day to the other.

"I don't want to do this."

"Know you don't, cowboy, but he don't take orders from me."

"Shit, you just ain't got the balls for it, Tanner."

Vin glimmered a smile.

The two of them entered the saloon side by side, as they had done on many a previous occasion.

Vin found himself a chair, motioned at Ezra where he leaned at an odd angle against the bar. Obviously felt like he'd done enough for now. Chris dumped his hat on the table, wandered over and bellied up next to him.

"Ezra."

Ezra nibbled at his drink, put it down. "'stah Larabee."

"So this is you then? Town drunk?" Chris stared at Ezra's reflection in the mirror above the bottles behind Ollie's head. His hair was just slightly disheveled, his face just slightly flushed. Nothing monstrous or threatening. It was the way Ezra usually did inebriation. Only there was no spark about him. No mischief.

"Mah destiny perhaps."

"Doesn't hafta be."

Chris turned shoulder on to the bar, looked at him closely. Ezra was so damn good at faking it. First time Chris had ever seen him he'd been faking it. Whole saloon thought he was drunk as a skunk. Had the movements down pat, the speech, even the eyes. Just like now.

Chris knew how oblivion could beckon. He knew it.

"How much have you had?"

Ezra smiled wanly into the distance. "Not nearly enough."

"You and Buck had words."

Ezra stood up straight, weaved a little, then aimed an elbow down on the bar. "Mr. Wilmington may have made some sounds. Ah myself kept mah counsel."

"What he say?"

Ezra plucked at the glass. "Somethin' quite similar in nature to Matthew Bracken. Somethin' alarmingly similar in nature."

"Jesus Christ, Ezra, what does that mean? What in the hell did Buck say to ya?"

"He's confused." Ezra became mired in the sibilance of the words, smacked his lips. "Mus' be. Mistakin' my motives."

"How can he mistake ya goddamn motives?"

Ezra looked sideways at him without bothering to raise his head. The movement seemed to set off a full-body tilt that he only just managed to correct. "'s'all the same, always the same. Seems I ask for it." A finger waved at him, searching for precision. "No. Wait. Seems I beg for it."

"Shush," Chris said. "Keep ya voice down."

"Why? Am ah an embarrassment?"

"Ezra .."

"'stah Larabee?"

"None of this is your goddamn fault."

Ezra stumbled over a laugh. "Well there's a novelty."

"Just because Buck and JD and Josiah've got it balled-up, don't mean you have to."

"I don't much care anyhow. Why don't you go 'way and leave me alone?"

Chris rode the frustration of being deflected from the path he was pursuing. He trod another path. "You eaten anything today?"

"You mah muthah?"

"Listen, I'll talk to Buck. Straighten him out. Whatever bull-crap he said, he didn't mean it."

Ezra got himself upright, turned and faced Chris squarely. "Would you not," he said. "Would you not do this, please?"

"Do what?"

"All this ..." He mimed a twittering beak. "This ... talkin' about me behind my back. The good citizens of this burg are busy whispering that I am now a lesser man, although you ... you, Mr. Larabee, have often led me to believe that they never thought so very much of me anyhow." Ezra frowned to himself. "I have no ideah how they came by the knowledge of what transpired." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "It is to be hoped that my friends have been nothing but discreet."

"Anyone says to me you're a lesser man I'll smack 'em in the mouth."

Ezra smiled again. He ducked his head, swiped a thumb along his lip, let loose a little chuckle that threatened to over-balance him. Chris snagged an elbow.

"I think you need to go sleep this off."

Doubt bunched Ezra's brow. "I do? You think so?"

Chris felt an odd pang under his ribs. Man had switched from belligerent to vulnerable in a matter of seconds. Shit coming at him from every which way. He was going to go down under all this if they didn't look out for him. And Chris had the idea that if he did, Ezra would go under much too deep, much too quickly. They'd never get to him. He jerked his head at Vin who rose from his chair, came over and lifted Ezra's other arm, plopped it over his shoulder.

Ezra looked at him blearily. "Where we goin, Mr. Tannah?"

"You just leave it to us, Ez. Nothin' for you ta worry about."

Ezra's feet missed most of the stairs. In his room, Chris and Vin spilled him on to his bed with little attention to his recent injuries, hauled off his boots and threw the bedspread over him. He rolled around for a while, complaining. Then stopped.

"You know what?" Chris said to Vin. "I think it's just you and me right now."

Vin backed away from the bed. He hadn't been able to stop himself checking that Ezra was still breathing. Once he'd gone quiet, he'd gone awful quiet.

"How'd you figure that?"

"Nathan thinks things are even worse than we know. Got Ezra pegged for havin' been through something like this before though he won't admit it. JD's acting like Ezra ain't even there, like he thinks if he doesn't say nothin' to him it'll all go away. I don't know what the hell's going on in Josiah's head. Seem to me he oughta be doing something helpful, spoutin' some of his goddamn scripture or something 'stead of walking away all the time. As for Buck, got himself so bent outa shape ... I may have to damn well punch him if he doesn't get himself unbent."

"Hell." Vin blew out a quiet whistle. "We're puttin' you through the wringer, cowboy."

"You ain't."

"I ain't what?"

"You ain't puttin me through the wringer, Vin. When the hell did you get so wise?"

Vin looked nonplussed. "Listen. I'll leave Buck and Ezra ta you. Let me deal with JD."

"Thanks a lot." Chris poked between his brows with one finger, looking for inspiration. "Josiah?"

"He's got special help, ain't he?"

"Well I wish you or his special help could tell me what I oughta do."

"Ain't got a clue. Just want to get that goddamn, sick sonofabitch out of Ezra's sight and out of his mind."

"Three more days." Chris rubbed his forehead wearily. "Detail'll be here in three more days."

It wasn't soon enough.

Not by a long chalk.


	8. Chapter 8

_There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them_ ~Andre Gide

* * *

JD had examined the printed Butterfields schedule more than once, fixed which stage he would travel on. He could pick any Tuesday he liked, just needed to be ready to travel by midday. First stop Tucson, then due east to El Paso.

He'd given himself some days to mull over the decision that was before him. When it came down to it though, there wasn't much time for mulling. They were too busy with the prisoners and running their endless patrols in and around town. What JD longed for was to see the detail come and take Bracken away, to feel relief that the man was no longer close. He also badly wanted not to be at odds with Buck, although it kind of made the idea of leaving easier.

"He's just concerned about ya, JD." Vin was getting real handy at explaining other people's behavior when they couldn't do it themselves.

"Why's he mad all the time then?"

"He ain't really mad. Not with you. Just so damn relieved you're all right, I reckon. Can't expect him to be pleased ya set on leaving either."

"I'm not leaving 'cause of him, Vin. Why'd he think I'm leaving 'cause of him?"

"Hell, kid, Buck's prolly having trouble figuring out any reason you'd be leaving."

JD had decided he wasn't going to be mealy-mouthed about all this. Upping sticks out of Four Corners was a fair decision, he told himself, based on mature and sensible thoughts, absolute truths that none of them could deny. Not running away. Just ... broadening horizons.

"It'll come soon anyhow. We can't stay here doin' this forever."

Vin agreed, but only up to a point. "Never good to outstay ya welcome, but you need to be real sure when ya turn ya back on somethin, it doesn't creep right up and kick ya in the pants." He looked like he was starting to weary of dispensing pearls of goddamn wisdom.

Casey was another problem. JD didn't intend to be leaving her at all. He had whole other intentions in that direction, but he couldn't reveal them quite yet. He hoped, when it got to that part, Casey would agree to wait for him. The vague notion that he might become a Texas Ranger hadn't gone away and the journey to Austin was charted in his mind. After that, he thought, when he was all set up and gainfully employed, she could come and marry him. He recalled that one of them – Buck probably – had once told him that marriage wasn't as simple and straightforward a happening as he might think. That there were compromises and sacrifices involved. That had kind of irked JD at the time, and it irked him even more now.

Damn. Had made the whole thing sound more like politics than love. What the hell did Buck know anyhow?

Then there was Ezra, of course. Vin's words were a constant refrain in the back of his mind, but JD was no nearer acting on them. In fact, as time went on, he felt unable to even approach. Didn't have to work very hard to avoid him, either, because it seemed like Ezra was hiding from everyone. Seemed no point in trying to talk to him because he was never present, or never sober. JD wondered whether maybe he'd write to him, once he was away. Because, he reasoned, he'd have more time to say the right things, and because Ezra was good with words on a page. JD persuaded himself that it would be easier for Ezra, too, not to have to listen to him getting his tongue all twisted trying to thank him for something JD wasn't even sure he understood.

Dreams of the mill-house barn haunted his sleep. He hadn't said anything to anyone. Far as they could tell, Ezra wasn't damn well waking every night in a sweaty panic. Or, if he was, he certainly wasn't telling anyone about it. At anyrate, JD felt it vital he keep quiet about his own night terrors. He'd never been one to be troubled by bad memories in the dark, but these dreams were clear and pervasive. Dreams of being dragged to his feet and away from the safety of Buck. Dreams in which Ezra hadn't said a word, and then dreams in which he had, in which there was nothing but the gut-wrenching, rhythmic sound of the buggy wheel rattling. In his waking hours, JD often couldn't rid himself of the chill he felt to see the misery in Ezra's eyes when he finally forced himself to take a good long look at him.

Two days before the detail was due, JD ate his supper on prisoner watch.

"Friday special," Josiah told him when he came over from the restaurant with a tray. "Vin's having second helpings, says he'll be along soon."

"Slop we've had sure ain't special," Wilton complained.

As if no voice had been heard, Josiah left again.

Napkin tucked into his collar, JD ate fast before the food cooled down. He roved his eyes around the familiar jail-house, thought wistfully about being a Sheriff someplace else. Someplace else where he wouldn't need six other men sharing his duties, where he could be respected in his own right. Maybe, he mused, he should spend a year or two as a Texas Ranger. Then he could go see Judge Travis, offer his services for some other town in the territory. That way, he could keep up with Buck. And Casey maybe wouldn't have to leave her home.

Plans and possibilities teemed in his head. For the first time, JD felt the thrill of anticipation.

"He was easy," Bracken said, cutting right across his thoughts.

Up until then, the prisoners had been quiet enough. Their behavior had been positively meek for the last forty-eight hours or so. Nathan reckoned months of liquor and hell knew what other kinds of shit were draining out of them fast and they were feeling lousy. The sound of Link Chain pissing in a bucket had put JD off his pie tonight but they hadn't been any trouble. They'd eaten, pushed their plates and cups out and JD had collected them up, made sure all the forks were returned. He wasn't supposed to enter the cells without another peacekeeper on watch, but neither did he want to sit with the stench of the bucket in his nostrils until Vin came. So he'd drawn his gun, gone in to fetch it. Bracken and Chain had just sat quiet, looking at him, Bracken grinning slightly when JD made a face at the weight of the contents. When he'd disposed of the waste, he went back inside to dump the empty bucket in the corner. He locked the cell. Link still sat quiet and Bracken was lying on his side as if about to drop off to sleep.

JD had just got back to the desk and was about to take the keys off his belt and replace them in the safe drawer when Bracken spoke.

"He was real easy."

The legs of the cot scraped on the floor. JD felt his stomach turn over. When he glanced at the cell, the man was on his feet, had his hands wrapped around the bars.

"Shut up." It was all JD could think to say, realized as soon as he spoke that he'd do better to keep quiet.

"Yep. He was easy. Ain't that so, Link?"

Link nodded his great head, scratched his beard so hard the sound set JD's teeth on edge.

"All that fussin' and fightin'?" Bracken sighed in a world-weary fashion. "Just for show." His words were smooth, almost mesmerizing. "He wanted it. He wanted it so bad."

It had been a while since Bracken had opened his mouth at all. He had just kept his disturbing, beady gaze on whichever one of the six happened to be on watch, making nothing but the odd remark about the conditions or food. Even so, for the first couple of days Chris had warned them repeatedly that, whatever they heard, he expected them not to react.

"Mustn't start believin' it either," he'd added one time, to Buck.

More recently, Bracken seemed to have no more to say and hell but it had made the whole thing easier. JD hoped his face was showing that he wasn't thrown by this sudden shift back to Ezra. Bracken smiled. He unlaced one of his hands from the bars, stuck it in his back pocket. When it emerged, JD saw something catch the light and his flip-flopping stomach hit the floor.

A small circle of gold was held between a thumb and forefinger.

JD recognized it at once. It was a ring, set with a red stone. Ezra owned an impressive collection of jewellery, was proud of it in that irritating way of his. But if there was one decoration he was more likely to adorn himself with than any other, it would be this. The little item was neat and classic, possibly more valuable than it appeared, not unlike the gambling man himself. There was some long and complicated story about how Ezra came to own the damn thing. It had something to do with a game of Montana Red Dog and a snowstorm, JD hadn't really concentrated too well on any of the occasions the tale had been told.

But whatever the story, JD was appalled. That something precious belonging to Ezra had been taken from him while he lay helpless. That Matt Bracken had kept it quietly in his pocket all this time. And most of all ... damn ... that Ezra had said nothing about it.

Bracken lifted a hand, slid the ring on to his own finger and regarded it for a second. "Your fine and fancy friend." He turned his hand this way and that, raised his eyes to meet JD's. "Think he's a lawman like you?" Another waggle of the finger, a corresponding grave shake of the head. "Nah, can tell you, he'll never be that because he ... shit, he's nothin but a cheap little Southern whore."

"You lousy, fuckin' thief!" JD yelled it before he could stop himself.

The desire to connect his fist to Bracken's teeth, to wrestle the little object from his finger, spiraled through him. Something about the theft filled him with more anger than any of Bracken's words. It was so fierce it was like he'd blacked out for a second. One moment he stood by the desk shaking with rage. The next, in its bitter backwash, JD was across the room. Before he'd processed any of it, he found himself twisted, slammed against the bars of the cell with Link Chain's hands around his neck. For a big man, he could move awful fast.

"Uh uh uh," Bracken murmured in his ear, coming alongside Link and snaking a hand out of the bars. JD felt his gun slide from the holster, heard the hammer and felt the press of cold metal against one temple. Link kept his grip tight.

Bracken laughed softly, patted his hands around JD's waist again, found the keys. "Stirred up a little righteous anger there did I? Hm? My, my, gettin' so hot and bothered defendin' your boy's virtue. Ain't that sweet?"

JD could feel his vision spotting. He heard the key grind in the lock. The gun came away from his head but only for a few seconds. Soon as Bracken had the door open, he came back round, pointed it at JD's chest.

"Get the other keys, lawman." Link's hands loosened.

"We gonna kill him, Mattie?" Wilton asked when he was outside his cell.

"One shot'll bring them running. If I could find a knife I'd stick him ... or we could take him with us."

"Prisoners are too much fuckin' trouble."

Bracken laughed. "You got that right." He kept his gaze and the gun on JD, didn't waver for a second. Link and Wilton were scouring the room for more weapons, used the keys to open the gun cabinet and took two rifles and some boxes of ammunition. Wilton removed a wad of dollar bills from JD's vest, tucked them in his pocket. Bracken picked up the coffee pot from the pot-belly stove, opened it and grinned to find it wasn't empty. He tipped open the lid, peered inside and drank straight from the pot. They'd only been given water since they were captured.

"Now then, lawman. We're takin' our leave. 'Fore we go, gotta coupla messages for ya friends. First of all, you can tell pretty that I'm coming back for him. Got that? He won't know when. But I will come for him. You make sure he knows. And second of all ..."

Bracken may have said something else. JD didn't find out what.

He heard the faintest whoosh of something traveling fast through the air at the back of his head and then absolutely nothing.

* * *

It was the two Livery hands that raised the alarm. They should have been at their work but they'd been having a game behind the hotel where they'd discovered a big tub of soapy water. By the time they'd skipped back, wet and out of breath, three horses and plenty of tack were missing. Neither of them thought for a while that their absence at this particular time had probably saved their lives. One of them ran for Yosemite, and one for Larabee.

There were a lot of unwelcome questions being asked by the time Chris and Josiah found JD trying to get to his knees inside one of the cells. The desk drawer had been taken out and emptied, the door of the gun-cabinet was wide and there was a pool of coffee on the floor. Buck, incandescent, fetched Nathan and Vin went on a hunt for Ezra, found him half asleep on a stool in the back room of Watson's hardware.

"Got trouble, Ez, you need to come listen to this," Vin said, hooking an arm under his elbow and pulling him up. He glanced at Bob Watson who was looking a little guilty, as if he'd been encouraging bad behavior of some kind. "He been bothering you?"

"Naw, Mr. Standish has been here discussing ... um ... neckties."

Didn't look much like Ezra had been discussing anything. His own necktie was missing again, a phenomenon that did not bode well for his state of mind. By the time Vin got him over to the jail and they'd discovered what the trouble was, Ezra looked in a worse state than JD.

His face was leached of color and once over the threshold he leaned heavily on the door jamb. There he remained, unmoving, holding himself rigid.

"He said he'd be back," JD ground out, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers tightly as Nathan swabbed the back of his head. He looked to be getting mighty ticked off with being walloped. "Bracken said that he'd be back."

"Whaddya mean?" Buck was pacing.

"Said ... I had to tell Ezra ..."

"Tell him what?"

"That he'd be back for him."

Buck made a sound like he was clearing some foul-tasting phlegm from the back of his throat.

Chris shook his head firmly. "It's just talk. That's what Bracken does."

The whole room looked at him doubtfully. They knew the Boulder story. Trail Ridge. Cortez. Random victims Camino and Bracken had stalked, hounded, cornered. Killed.

"He said Ezra wouldn't know when. He said ..."

"Just talk," Chris repeated and saw Ezra make a jerky gesture with his shoulders, as if a cold breeze had sprung up. "Shouldn't have damn well gone near them without back-up, kid. I know you want out, but you've still got a job to do."

"Damnit, Vin, where the hell were you?" Buck demanded.

"I know!" Vin snapped back. "I shoulda been here."

"Yeah but you're still the one in charge," Nathan put in, swinging on Chris with an edge of real fury. "Down to you if JD was left hanging by his thumbs."

There was a second or two of disbelieving silence from the rest. Chris didn't react. He could take the blame if he had to.

"How the hell he best you, JD?" Buck asked. He seemed angered, and, as had been happening of late, his anger fired off in all directions, targeted nowhere and everywhere.

"Talk." JD was remorseful. Almost tearful. He knew what he'd done all right. "Things he was sayin'."

"What things?"

JD stole a look at Ezra. "I ain't repeatin' it. I ain't sayin' the words, Buck. Just wanted him to shut the hell up. He never shuts the hell up." He wasn't sure why, but he didn't want to mention the ring, not in front of the others.

"Sayin' things about me?" Ezra eased himself upright, came over. He peered at the back of JD's head and winced, dared a short but belligerent stare at Buck. "He's always sayin' things about me. I just wish one time when you gentlemen take umbrage on my behalf you'd finish the job." He turned away and walked back out of the jail, leaving the door open.

They knew he was headed for the saloon.

Nathan looked meaningfully at Buck who was nearest the door. The look plainly suggested Buck should follow on.

"Leave him be." Vin's words to Buck were equally meaningful.

Nathan tutted. "Aw, come on, now, Vin. It ain't the right way." He gave JD a slight push, to show him he was done.

"It's his way. Leave him be."

"You want him to drink hisself to death?"

"If ya so worried, Nathan, you go nursemaid him." Buck was more than a little truculent. He remained where he was, although he seemed as irritated with Vin as he was with Nathan.

"He'll get nasty if I go," Nathan said. "JD?"

"Come on, fellers. He ain't gonna stand me telling him. "'sides, shouldn't I be lyin' down takin' it easy or something?"

"Surely there is one among us who might have a word of advice?"

Vin looked at Josiah like he had two heads. "Shoutn't that be you, preacher?"

Chris rubbed the knuckles of one hand against the inside of his wrist, kept that hand clenched. He took his eyes off the empty cell which he had been studying fiercely.

"They're on the goddamn loose, Vin. That's enough reason to keep an eye on Ezra."

"Thought you said Bracken was all talk."

Damn. Now Vin was doing it.

Chris wondered how the hell it had gotten to this ... one incident, one selfless gesture ... and all of a sudden, they were floundering like fish on dry land. They didn't seem to agree with one another anymore, didn't seem to fit together anymore. Couldn't even do the damn job properly. And the worse it became, the more the temptation rose to just walk away.

"I'll go," Chris said. "'Cause of course he'll be real pleased to see me."

"Shit." Buck seemed disgusted with everything. "We don't even know which way they left town."

"Right." Chris tapped Vin on the shoulder with one finger as he left. "You need to find out."

"Tracked 'em once, can track 'em again."

"So what you still standin' round here for then?"

Vin exited without another word. Chris gestured towards Buck and Josiah, silently questioned why they weren't on his heels. They followed on, looked guilty as hell.

Shoulda known, Chris thought, as he crossed the street. Shoulda known goddamn better than to try and keep an outfit like this together.

He found Ezra propping up the bar.

"Ya doin' it again." Chris stood right behind him. "Am I gonna hafta fetch someone to come help me haul your sorry ass upstairs in another hour or two?"

"Why not just let my sorry ass remain where it falls?"

"Make a mess in the saloon. Then I'd hafta lock you up."

Ezra gave a combative look over his shoulder. "Hafta shoot me first."

"Might come to it."

"I can well imagine."

"What you runnin' away for anyhow? You ain't a civilian yet. We're still in this together."

"Ah yes, the inexorable pull of brotherhood." Ezra rocked the bottle back and forth. "Anyhow, ah'm tired of the unnecessary fuss. I have survived, intact, don't require anymore fuss." He cleared his throat. "It is merely that I am not sure where I stand, Mr. Larabee, not with any of you."

"You stand pretty good with me, Ezra."

"I beg your pardon?'

"You heard."

Ezra turned and blinked at him. "Indeed."

"In-deed. Shown some grit, kept ya dignity. Real proud of ya, Ez." Chris shook his head at the blatant disbelief. "Ain't funnin' ya, Ezra. Not this time."

"Well then," Ezra flustered. He pushed the bottle of whiskey down the bar in invitation. Chris wanted a drink all right but he just shook his head, hoping to lead by example. Ezra shrugged, pulled the bottle back towards himself. As he slopped another shot into his glass, he sent a sidelong look at Larabee, clearly not sure why he continued to stand there.

"Think I'll stay," Chris said.

"Why's that?"

"Think I'll wait on you. 'Til you've had enough."

"Hope you don't have important plans."

"None to speak of."

Ezra stuck a nervous thumb near his mouth, touched his tongue on it. "You gentlemen given up the chase already?"

"Tracked 'em once. C'n track 'em again."

Ezra clearly recognized Vin's phrase. "Mr. Tanner gone huntin'?"

Chris nodded and Ezra drank to it, emptying the glass straight off.

"You might want to slow down."

"Ah might."

Yeah. I know you ain't going to.

Chris couldn't decide if Ezra was drunker than last time, but there was definitely something different about him, something he didn't care for at all. Maybe it was that he so clearly wasn't faking, was resolutely heading for the bottom of the bottle fast as he could get there. And doing it with a near-suicidal determination to make the drop as hard as possible.

Shit. Ezra was flirting in goddamn dangerous territory here. Chris didn't want to go with him. He'd lost months of his own life there, almost didn't make it out.

Chris tapped the side of the bottle of Red-Eye with a fingernail so it made a dinging sound.

"What'll you'll find down there is bad, Ez. It's shit, I'm tellin' ya, all of it. Worse than anything ya got now."

There were ways and ways to handle this.

_Fight him, knock him down, dunk him in the trough, lock him in his room._

Ezra contemplated him with a heavy-lidded gaze, waiting.

_Or match him. Slow him down. Listen and manipulate. Gain his trust if it ain't too late._

Goddamnit, but Ezra was bound to be one hell of a hard nut to crack.

Chris crooked a finger at Ollie, settled in for the long haul.

* * *

Vin and Josiah were gone for a day.

They returned with all three horses and George Wilton, who had a bullet in his leg. Buck had seen them coming from the lookout on the roof of Watson's and he was waiting with Nathan, JD and Chris outside the jail-house when they made it into town.

Ezra had apparently only finished throwing up his gut-load of Red-Eye a few hours previously and was still draped over a settle in a room behind the bar.

"He ain't gonna be interested in anything for a while." Nathan was matter-of-fact, already assessing the injured man's condition as he was pulled unceremoniously to the ground.

Bracken and Chain had jumped a train outside Ridge City. Some altercation had left Wilton behind, bleeding. The train was traveling west and it was hours up the track by the time Vin and Josiah arrived.

"Where's he headed, George?"

Chris, ill-tempered from toiling down the whiskey-trail with Ezra all night, conducted his interrogation while Nathan was working on the gunshot wound.

"Ya think he told me?" Wilton was pretty lively for a man with a bullet in him. "Fuck, Mattie doesn't have a plan. He heard the train, decided to get on it. Could jump again anytime, or go all the way to the goddamn ocean. I don't fuckin' know."

"You tell us the man shot you and dumped you off your horse. Left ya to die. And still you won't give him up? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Shit," Wilton said on a moan. "I don't care what happens to Mattie. All you need ta know is that he's long gone, you won't track him on the railroad. But you should watch your backs, I know that much. Especially the Southerner. If Mattie said he'll come for him, then he will come. He don't give up on things like that, and he took a powerful liking. Don't look good for him."

"Trust me, Matt Bracken will be shot dead before he gets within a mile."

"You don't know Mattie. Or Link. They're good at this. If they want something bad enough, you ain't gonna stop 'em."

"Watch us."

Wilton groaned and lay back down on his side. "Nah ... it's you need to be doin' the watchin'. You need to watch your boy good. He's marked. Ain't no escapin'."

"You are full of more shit than a brick shit-house, Wilton. Bracken's the one who's marked. We can notify every town between here and San Francisco that he's on his way."

"You c'n try," Wilton said, laying his head down on the cot with a sigh.

"Yeah, and the army detail will still be here, George. Especially for you."

Just another groan in reply.

"I'm goin' out again," Vin said, but Chris shook his head, moved him away out of earshot of the prisoner.

"Rather you stayed. Need all the guard-dogs we can get."

"For him? He's not gonna try anything. Ain't got the heart for it."

"Not for him, Vin."

"Uh-huh."

"Need to stick together." Chris looked grim. "I told Ezra that. I'll tell all of ya. 'Bout time we fuckin stuck together."

Detail arrived, three days' late. Ten soldiers and an armored wagon.

Wilton was in chains before he left his cell. He'd been a lamb since Nathan dug the bullet out of him. Suddenly seemed to get the idea that his time in the jail in Four Corners would probably be the most pleasant of whatever time he had left. Wouldn't say much more about Bracken and Chain. Just that he thought it'd be wiser to sit and wait for them to come back rather than ride over the mountains looking for them. Said they could come by day or night, when you least expected.

The detail rolled out through a watchful crowd. Folks had been unsettled since the prisoner escape. They didn't know the whole story, but they knew enough to know Bracken and Chain were the dangerous ones. Chris had been feeling the cold blast of opprobrium billowing his way and Vin could see him beginning to eye the descent that Ezra was on as if he suddenly thought it was a good idea.

Being jumped by Bracken hadn't improved JD's frame of mind either. Just seemed to make him feel all the more justified for wanting to leave. He'd still not taken his seat on the stage to Tucson as he'd planned, however. Let that one go, citing desire to see Wilton out of town.

Vin hoped he was staying for Ezra.

Five days after Wilton's departure, JD was still in town. Still none too friendly with Buck, in the same confounding way that Nathan and Josiah were none too friendly with each other either. Always had to go searching for them, instead of them just being around. Vin hoped Chris wasn't going to be driven to tell them to get the hell out.

Larabee was not a patient man.

Worse than ever, lately. Hardly aware he was doing it, Vin kept as close a watch on him as any of the others. Maybe more. When he saw him come marching down the street from the telegraph office like he had a bee up his butt, Vin immediately rose to his feet outside the jail and wandered to cut him off.

"Where's the fire, cowboy?"

Chris came to a halt, held up a flimsy paper like a trophy. It was a second or two before he could get his words out they seemed so important to him. "No fire, Vin. This is good news. Good fuckin' news at last." He offered the paper.

"Just tell me. I ain't tryin to work it out." Vin was already eyeing the block letters nervously.

Chris shook it. "Only just come. Says some outfit hired by the railroad identified Bracken sittin' on a goddamn train. Arrested him there and then. He's bein' held in Carson City."

Vin felt a rush of something big. Like change. Or hope.

"Carson City? What the hell's he doin' over there?"

"I don't care."

"Chain?"

"Still on the run, they're trackin' him north."

"Damn," Vin said. He let the rush settle, let the news sink in deep enough he could believe it. "Damn straight that's good fuckin' news." A smile lit his face. "Reckon we should go drink to it."

"You know where Ezra is?"

Vin looked gloomy again. All his efforts to keep track of Ezra's movements hadn't paid off so far. "Well he ain't in the saloon. Doin' his drinkin' on the sly, knows we're on ta him. Must be layin' low someplace."

"You lookin' for Ez?" Nathan asked, clumping up on to the boardwalk.

Chris waved the wire again. "Got somethin' to celebrate, Nathan. Bracken's been arrested. Chain's runnin' north."

Nathan's face split in a huge grin and his eyes shone. He put out a hand and gripped Chris's, shook it vigorously. "Ah hell, that's real good news. Damn, we needed this." He took the paper, ran his eyes over it, to make sure. Nodded a few times, handed it back. "If you figure on tellin' Ezra, reckon you'll find him in the bath-house."

"Again?" Vin said in dismay. "He was there all goddamn morning." It seemed that no amount of hot water and soap would convince Ezra he was clean. And from what they could judge, he was getting worse about it instead of better.

Chris pressed the crinkled sheet at him. "Here, you go round up the boys, tell 'em to come have a drink. I'll fetch the water-baby."

Ezra greeted the news with an obedient smile.

It was presented to him like a gift and politeness made him accept it gracefully. He wasn't happy that the presentation took place in front of all the others. He only liked to go into the saloon these days if none of them were there, and now Chris had dragged him all the way from the bath-house to his old table and they were sitting around like a goddamn committee, waiting for him to say something.

He accepted a drink, slightly embarrassed by the clear tremor that shook his arm and hand as he raised the glass slowly to his lips. Even more embarrassed by the blatant concern etched on Chris Larabee's face as he watched, the sidelong glances the others gave him, like they didn't recognize him anymore.

What the hell was it? Just that he wasn't wearing a goddamn neck-tie?

Ezra tipped the drink down quickly. He wasn't wearing a goddamn neck-tie because the wretched things about goddamn strangled him these days, couldn't they work that out?

Vin Tanner sat close, both arms leaning on the table, hands wrapped around his own drink. Once he knocked Ezra's knee with his own, a deliberate gesture that Ezra knew was designed to keep him going somehow.

Nathan caught his eye. Shook his head over the damn tremor, the ease with which the whiskey disappeared. Ezra was glad that some things hadn't changed.

As for the other three ... everything had changed there. Ezra was aware that Josiah observed him from a distance. Even at the table he had his chair pushed away. Although he didn't much like the feeling of being cut loose by his annoyingly paternal conscience, Ezra was not sorry about the broken window. Neither was he sorry about taking liquor into church, or about having informed Josiah he was a hypocrite and bombast who undoubtedly deserved to be de-frocked. Ezra was used to being a sinner, possibly one of the worst Josiah had to deal with. He figured there wasn't much point in shouting, as he was tempted, "And just what in the name of God do you think I did wrong?"

Josiah had demons and Ezra let them loose. End of story. He was much too tired and damn well drunk to pick the bones out of that carcass.

Buck and JD were different again. They didn't look at him at all if they could help it. Ezra felt sorry for that, but even more for the fact that they could hardly look at each other either. That, for reasons he didn't exactly understand, he was the cause of it. Buck was ill-humored and jumpy, although pleased to tell them about a young lady called Lucille who he'd met in Eagle Bend. JD was just plain despondent.

Poor boy, Ezra thought. One hell of a shock, knowing it was nearly him.

"Don't feel like you have to leave on my account," he said when JD pushed aside his glass.

"Shoot, Ezra, I'm just expected at Miss Nettie's." The reply was an embarrassed mumble.

Ezra nodded. When he thought of JD and Nettie Wells and Casey, he made a very strong case for pre-empting the boy's departure by leaving himself.

He hated it, this desire to run away fast from the six men whose irrational insistence on friendship gave him such pleasure. He hated them for having been there at the mill, for having seen him spread open and degraded before their very eyes and damn well aching for him, every one of them. God in Heaven, he knew that whatever they said and did from hereon in, they'd never let him forget.

And it was a grim and unpalatable truth ... however desperately Ezra might want to disappear, he knew he wasn't going anywhere.

He was too damn scared.

And he hated that more than anything.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hope is nature's veil for hiding truth's nakedness_ ~Alfred Bernhard Nobel

* * *

The rain dried up.

Wasn't it always the way? The world took a cautious breath, let it out real slow. The day after the wire from Carson City, a beaming yellow sun rose over Four Corners.

It wandered into the saloon, warmed the faded floorboards and the well-shined bar. Buck nodded to himself to feel it on his face as he ate breakfast. He wasn't exactly happy, but at least it was better than the damp in his bones. Damn glad, too, that the jail was empty. There was every chance he wouldn't be needed today.

Town was peaceful but there was no fun to be had. Buck Wilmington was not entirely about fun, but a good three-quarters of him was. The creeping sense of unease in his gut needed to be counteracted somehow. Heck but nobody was making it easy.

There was JD, talking up a storm about leaving, but not actually going anywhere. He wouldn't be cajoled out of his mood, had gotten snappy when Buck tried. Josiah, too. Always busy at the church, banging about and painting and polishing. Alone and grumpy. Chris and Vin were thick as thieves, hanging around with some horse-dealer from Utah. Now, Buck liked talking horse as much as the next man, but not all day every day. Nathan always had work to do and it was proper work, that Buck didn't want to disturb. There wasn't a soul to play a hand of poker with.

Ezra didn't want to play poker. Or anything else. What he wanted, it seemed, was to remain in a permanent state of drowsy calm. Nowhere near falling on his face, like he'd been inclined at first, nowhere near fighting anyone, but nowhere near sober either. If he felt infected with some kind of canker, he didn't show it. All outward signs were that the bruises were healing, the marks fading. He said he felt perfectly fine enough to go out on patrol, and he had done so. And it was all perfectly fine.

Buck finished his breakfast, pushed back from the table. First sunny day in weeks, he felt the call of pastures new. Or, to be strictly accurate, the call of his loins. He needed a woman. He needed a generously-proportioned, warm and willing woman. Some flowery-smelling lady who knew what she wanted and would tell Buck how good he was. How big and hard and fine. A damn sweaty, wet, noisy guilt-free fuck. To put his mind straight again.

Lucille Brown, seamstress in Eagle Bend, had told him to head on over, any time he had a mind to.

"I have a mind to head on over to Eagle Bend," he told JD, nearly tripping over him outside the saloon doors.

"Oh and I s'pose you want me to tell Chris?" JD seemed sure that was what Buck was saying.

"I don't s'pose I want you to tell anyone anything, kid. Just passing the time of day."

On his way down the street to the Livery, Buck came on Mary Travis, hands full of recently-arrived mail. He stopped to help her, getting that heated feeling under his collar as if she, being a goddamn intuitive woman and all, could actually sense what he was heading out to occupy himself with that day. Mary just thanked him. When they arrived at the Clarion she picked a communication from the depths of the pile, handed it over.

"Would you pass this on, Buck? Letter for Ezra. I guess from his mother."

Buck tucked the letter in his pocket, tipped his hat. He'd already spotted Ezra asleep in the balmy breeze. Not an unusual sight, Ezra napping during the first half of the day. Legs stretched out and crossed on an upturned pail, arms clamped tight over his chest, flask gripped in one hand. He still wasn't dressing as Ezra. Buck, who'd rolled his eyes many a time at the precision and ostentation of his normal costume, now missed it more than he could say. The plain beige jacket, reaching to his thighs, adorned only with a workmanlike brown collar and cuffs seemed accidental and out of place. Under the black hat his face, Buck knew, looked pasty.

"You really asleep there, Ez, or you just ignoring me?" he asked.

No response.

There were many other things he would have liked to ask him. Still feeling that pain, Ezra? Had a dang hot meal any time in the last twelve hours? Now you'd tell us, wouldn't you, if you were having any trouble at all sleepin'?

Fat chance of any of those being met with anything but resent and obfuscation. Every time Buck opened his mouth with any seriousness, Ezra would run for the hills.

Buck kicked the pail lightly, careful not to make contact with a foot. "Letter for ya, hoss."

Ezra's chin bounced off his chest. He swept off his hat, sat up straight with a grumbled, "what in the blazes?"

Buck waved the letter at him. "Your Ma writin' you again. Maybe she's comin' on a visit."

Ezra plucked the envelope from Buck's hands, cast a quick eye over the handwriting and marks.

"Need cheering up," he said thoughtfully. "Ah'm sure this will do the trick."

Buck liked the familiarity of the tone, caustic but not enough to burn. It rushed through him, that certainty that he should speak now, say something quickly, before Ezra could escape. Try to explain the wild tangle of thoughts that wouldn't seem to sort themselves out.

"You ain't talked to him yet, have you, Buck?" Chris would say nearly every time they crossed paths.

"Listen, I'd say my piece if he'd let me, but he just won't let me. Same with all of us. He don't want to talk about it, and if that's helping him get back to normal then I ain't gonna upset that apple-cart."

The words sounded feeble and self-serving even to his own ears.

"Say, Ezra ..." he began.

"Am I supposed to be lookin' busy?" Ezra spoke briskly, as if he hadn't heard the two words. "There anythin' happening I'm supposed to be lookin' busy about?"

Buck shook his head. "No, but .."

"Well good. I'll just stay right here then. If you should see Mr. Larabee on the prowl, you will let me know, won't you?" Ezra looked Buck up and down quickly. "You on your way somewhere?"

"I might be. I might be takin' a short trip outa town."

Something almost identical to a warm and knowing smile suddenly lit Ezra's face. "You're going courting," he said.

Buck couldn't help his own grin. God's sake, he wasn't going to say or do a goddamn thing to wipe that smile off Ezra's face.

"There may be some courtin' goin on," he agreed.

Ezra jammed his hat back on his head, looked down at the letter in his hand again.

"Don't keep the lady waiting then," he said. "Or you might find some other Lothario takin' your place."

Buck didn't know who this Luther feller was, but he jumped down from the boardwalk, back on track to the Livery, with his heart almost light.

And the day just went on getting better and better. Nearly everything was damn good in Eagle Bend.

He arrived in the dark, ate supper and drank beer in the Sandpiper. Happy to sleep with his horse, and knowing Lucille had a penchant for the earthy smells of traveling cowboys, he did little but shrug on a clean shirt in the morning. Found himself some breakfast to give him energy and then had to wait a while before Lucille could slip away from her duties. Then she came and found him poking about in the general store.

"This a good time, darlin'?" he asked her as they ascended the stairs to the room she shared with another employee of the drapery next door. It wouldn't have stopped him, but he liked to know about difficult maneuvers in advance.

Lucille was young, forthright, perhaps a little foolish, but not stupid. "I'm about as safe as I can be without already having one in the pot. So you won't have to do any of that fancy stuff, Buck Wilmington. Just get your fine self into bed. And next time, bring me flowers or something. Walk out with me awhile."

Buck had half worried that his performance would be less than stellar. Lucille said all the right things. She did all the right things, damnit, moaned and hummed and laughed at all the fun parts. Said he was the most man she'd ever had and he was inclined to believe her. It wasn't Lucille's fault at all that he couldn't instigate any of the pretend rough-house shenanigans he knew she liked. That he couldn't bring himself to flip her over, settle her carefully face down in the pillows, catch her wrists in a gentle grasp at her back, and have her beg him.

"Sugar, somethin' tells me you're feelin' a little sad," Lucille said, when she evidently realized that Buck Wilmington, of all men, was limiting himself to the missionary position.

He really wanted to tell her everything. The whole story from Sharpeville onwards. To explain, even though she knew nothing of either of them, that he felt like an utter shit because he was so damn relieved it had been Ezra and not JD.

Women, though. They had those instincts. Could draw the sting from your heart even when they didn't know, and would never know, what was making it hurt so very hard.

Feeling content from the waist down, but still vaguely unsettled somewhere between his chest and his brain, Buck returned home in time to join an impromptu gathering for supper.

Chris and Vin were about finished eating. JD was mid-steak and Josiah was silent over a bowl of soup. Their accustomed table at the back of the restaurant in Four Corners was littered with breadcrumbs and coffee stains. Buck was acknowledged warmly as he came and sat.

It was almost normal, almost as he wanted.

Hot food almost settled that empty feeling flapping about inside him. After a while, just as if it was an ordinary early evening on a good, quiet day, the door opened and Nathan appeared.

He shook dust off his hat before he came right in, hung it on a hook by the door, then wound his way deliberately through the tables.

"Everything all right?" Chris asked him.

"What, can't a man come to eat without there bein' a problem?"

Nathan slid into a chair. He suddenly seemed to realize that he had all five of them before him at once and he nodded significantly. Like Buck, it seemed to make him feel a measure of content. They let him get settled, rambled on about nothing in particular until he had a full plate in front of him.

It was Chris who wouldn't let the rambling take over.

Damnit, Buck thought, why can't you leave it? Just for a while longer.

"How are things, Nathan? Seen Ezra?"

Seemed like the most-asked and least-answered question at the moment.

Nathan thought for a moment before he responded. "Far as I c'n tell, Ezra's doin' fine. He ain't got no business to be doin' fine way they went at him, but then ... that's Ezra, ain't it? He don't seem to have caught no diseases, ain't gonna die of the hurt."

"How come you're sayin' all that and I still don't feel good about it?" Chris asked. Buck remembered how very damn tenacious the man was. How, when there was something on his mind, nothing short of an earthquake would take his attention away from it.

"Listen," Nathan said, fork halting in the air above his dinner, "You ain't gonna want to hear this but I'm gonna tell you anyhow. Somethin' from a long time ago." Nathan wasn't a big story-teller. He liked to listen, always appreciated tales from lives and places he knew nothing about, but he didn't contribute any of his own. Just occasional short, sharp memories. Buck could tell one was coming now, and he braced himself for it. "Back in Georgia, when I was a kid ... knew a man and his son worked over that same way. Beaten and raped by some white men. Only sixteen, seventeen the boy."

JD slammed his fork down in disgust. It was obviously the very last thing he wanted discussed while he was eating his supper. Nathan glanced at him but didn't stop speaking.

"He was proud, that man. Proud and ashamed. Month after it happened, he's dead. Hung hisself from an oaktree, slit his own son's throat first. Couldn't stand it for hisself, couldn't stand it for his boy. Just ... couldn't stand ta live with it."

Nathan shrugged as if apologizing.

"God's sake," Buck muttered.

"Sad story." Chris was neutral, guarded, but still somehow intent. "And so what you actually sayin'?"

Another shrug. "Some things don't heal, they just work on the mind." Nathan took a mouthful of food, chewed and swallowed. "Lotta folk turned against him after it happened."

"We ain't turned against Ezra," JD said firmly.

"There's some around town got wind of Bracken's crap and're thinkin' things they shouldn't be thinkin'."

"Can't put a gag on thoughts, Vin," Chris said.

"What you want us to do, Nathan?" Buck didn't need the good parts of his day to be blown aside like this. He wanted to stay with his face in the sun for as long as he possibly could.

"I ain't makin' a speech," Nathan said bad-temperedly. "Just puttin' you on notice."

Buck snorted. "Ole Ez ain't gonna go doin' anything like that. He's taken a bad knock, you can see it in his face, but he ... he'll get over it."

"Will you, Buck?" Nathan demanded. "Will you get over it?"

"It's not me," Buck said tightly. "I'm not the one."

"Just think about it. If you were the one."

"Come on, brother, no need to be like that." Josiah spoke with more than mild reproof in his voice.

Nathan said nothing, just twirled his fork in his dinner, eyes on his plate.

"Wouldn'ta bin the one," Buck muttered. "Just wouldn'ta bin."

"Like to know how you'd've avoided it. Without getting us all killed."

"All right." Buck put his hands on the table, gripped the edge hard. "All right. Maybe I wouldn'ta bin able to stop them. But I would sure as hell have kept my big mouth shut. They'd'a had no goddamn invitation from me."

"Damnit, Bucklin ..." Vin sounded cut to the quick. "That ain't fair. You ain't fair."

Buck knew it wasn't. He knew it, and he caught the scorching look that Chris was giving him across the cloth. "Fuck," he said. "What the hell'd he have to go and do that for, anyway? Why couldn't he a' just ... damn stupid sonofabitch." He heaved his shoulders, blinked across at JD.

And Thank God he is. Thank God he's so damn stupid.

There was a rueful silence round the table. Maybe they could all read his mind.

"Ez is lookin' a whole heap better," JD suddenly said. "Don't you think?"

His optimistic outlook had always been contagious. Buck felt himself ache to twinkle, but he couldn't manage it.

"If bein' drunk and havin' nightmares is better," Vin said.

"He hasn't said," Nathan murmured, a little angry, a lot worried.

"What's he gonna say?" Vin stood up from the table. He looked around at them all. "Who's he gonna say it to?"

"Sit down, Vin." Larabee was gruff. "You don't hafta go. You ain't on patrol."

"Eaten my supper. Goin' for a walk."

Nobody stopped Vin Tanner going for a walk when he wanted to go for a walk.

"See you in the saloon, then."

Vin's face told them they might, but then again, they might not. When he'd left, Chris eased himself forward, laid his elbows on the table.

"Damnit but he's touchy," Buck said. Things were still poised, precarious, on that edge. Buck had thought they were getting steadier, but it was a delicate balance.

There was the sound of jangling as Chris's feet changed position under the table. "If any of you boys intend stayin' on here, we can't afford any more trouble. Governor Hopewell's askin' questions. JD?"

JD shifted uncomfortably. "Well, no Governor Hopewell's gonna be sad to lose me. Reckon he knows I'm the Sheriff that let Matt Bracken escape."

"When you leavin'?"

"Maybe when Bracken's finished. Finally finished."

"He's about washed up already," Buck said, feeling another stab of hope at the kid's 'maybe'. "We know when he's comin' to trial?"

"They're keeping him in Carson City 'til it's set. Don't want to risk movin' him down to Yuma."

"And Chain?"

"Last seen headin' for moose country. Guess if Bracken thought his old friend was coming to spring him, he's outta luck."

"Well I reckon we should choose ta go, if we're goin'," Buck declared. "Not let no governor tell us we're no good."

"So you choosin', Buck?"

Wilmington didn't duck the question. He faced it head on, looked Larabee in the eye. "You'll be the first ta know," he said. Chris nodded, satisfied.

"Governor Hopewell says I can't be a lawman, I'm still a healer," Nathan said. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

Josiah didn't say anything. Just made a gesture indicating that it was out of his hands.

All Buck knew, and all he wanted to hang on to, was that the five of them made it to the saloon together, which hadn't happened yesterday. That they stayed there a good few hours. And that there'd been enough orange and pink in the sky as he'd ridden through Baker Pass earlier that he figured the sun would be shining tomorrow.

Even though something was still telling him maybe he shouldn't, he slept well that night, in a boneless sprawl in his bed, Lucille murmuring praise and encouragement into his ear.

* * *

Another day or so after the wire from Carson City, Mr. Standish began to be seen around town more confidently once again.

Townsfolk were curious to see him. At first they had been convinced by the story, constructed and disseminated by Nathan, who everyone always believed, that Standish had contracted some form of grippe on the trail. Seemed a fair enough reason for him to have been so low profile. Been poorly. Still recovering.

There were some who'd heard that something downright unnatural had happened to him out there. If they knew anything at all about Matthew Bracken, they were inclined to believe that tale. Someone, sometime had gotten close enough to the jail-house that they'd heard somebody saying something. Whatever it was, the source of the speculation had become lost in the sticky mess of a gossip that had a life of its own. Made them look at Mr. Standish in a whole new light, though, many of them without much sympathy.

The general opinion seemed to be that Standish had almost certainly gotten himself into trouble of his own volition. Which was about typical, and probably meant, as they suspected all along, that he'd be the first of the seven to melt his way into history.

The people of Four Corners were an ornery bunch, however. As much as they were gossiping, they were thinking. They were generally rather proud of their deadly efficient peacekeepers, if inclined to grumble about them ceaselessly. Certainly they knew that Chris Larabee and Vin Tanner were making it their business to listen very carefully to whatever rumor and tattle was wending its way around town. And react accordingly.

Ezra was tired of creeping around. He'd been on the end of enough rumor and speculation in his life that he knew that sometimes you just had to face it head on. Else ignore it altogether. Either way, you had to do it out in the open or you'd wind up being judged and sentenced by people for something they seemed to know all about and which you'd never even thought of in the first place.

His mother's letter was airy and brief.

_All my plans proceed apace, dear son. You will hear from me shortly as to when I might pay a visit. In the meantime, do keep out of trouble. Persuade your good colleagues to take the brunt of others' wicked ways and make sure you avoid it for yourself. In haste ..._

Reading Maude's words gave him indigestion. Which was impossible since there was hardly anything to digest.

All things considered though, Ezra was sure he was feeling better, he really was.

Just so long as nothing unpleasant was going to be revisited, so long as he could subtly imbibe enough liquor across the day that he'd function well enough as a regulator, then fall into a stupor at night and not dream very clearly. Just so long as he wasn't obliged to be too normal, to eat in a convivial group, or carry an entertaining evening at the card table.

Eschewing the saloon nearly all the time, he chose odd hours to go the restaurant when he knew he'd only likely meet Vin. They wouldn't feel a compulsion to talk much, because Ezra's natural sociability had deserted him and Vin tended to eat and run anyhow. Ezra not speaking didn't seem to make Vin as nervous as it made everyone else. He wouldn't work himself up into a fit over the outward signs of disintegration, either.

"Finish ya dinner," he might say, but not in the severe tone Nathan employed, or with the veiled threat of Larabee. Vin's tone was one of encouragement, as if he thought Ezra had just forgotten to clear his plate in a moment of absent-mindedness.

"Comin' for a drink?" he asked late one evening, when the restaurant was shut up but the proprietor had let them in when they both arrived unexpectedly.

Ezra hesitated, then declined.

"A stroll then? Fine moon tonight."

"Your poetic soul is heartwarmin', Mr. Tanner, but I thank you, no."

"So where you goin' then?"

"To mah bed."

"Sleep well."

"I wish it were that simple."

Vin nodded. "Things'll shake down, Ezra."

"Undoubtedly. I am an optimist."

"No you ain't," Vin said, straight-faced. "Ya wouldn't have lived this long if ya were."

Ezra didn't sleep. Not a wink, despite finishing most of the contents of his flask, newly filled only an hour or two previously. He'd walked right past Chris and JD sitting in the saloon without saying a word to them or even looking their way, had ascended the stairs coolly, thankful he hadn't tripped up a single step. Now he lay on the bed in his pants, shirt and boots, watching shadows chasing across the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the saloon drifting up the stairs.

Normally, such sounds would inform him he needed to go and bother Lady Luck, dance his way through whatever games of chance presented themselves. Tonight they informed him he was a coward who didn't really dare face any of his fellow citizens, let alone his so-called friends. Hell, when it came right down to it, Ezra couldn't even face his own thoughts.

Time for a cigar, he decided. A solitary smoke and a stroll to look at the fine moon. There were some excellent poems about Earth's satellite he was sure he'd learned by heart as a child. It would be instructional, he felt, not to mention distracting, to endeavor a recitation.

Rising slowly from the bed, he stood with a stretch, looped his suspenders up over his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair. His black vest and hat were thrown on a chair on top of the Derringer rig and he left them there without a second thought. Rich-smelling cigars were withdrawn from their brown wax paper and tucked into his pants pocket along with matches. Picking the Derringer from the table by the bed, he checked it for bullets, and slipped it under the cuff of his sleeve. He'd been accustomed to carrying the piece that way long before the construction of his first spring-loaded arm-rig. As a concession to the season he snagged the beige jacket from the back of the door, put it round his shoulders. Finally, he took a nip from his flask. Two, in fact. Threw it on the bed before he went out.

The back stairs of the saloon took him down to the late-night cool.

Ezra walked away from civilization before he lit up. He followed a favorite route along the backs of buildings and through trees, down to a bridge by the stream that ran deep and clean behind the blacksmiths'. As he walked, he rifled through his memory banks for the words he sought. He was confident they'd be safe and complete, like everything he chose to remember.

Lines drifted at him from the sky.

_Art thou pale for weariness?_

Standing in the center of the bridge, he smoked one cigar right through, left the butt to float into the dark. A locked-up part of his brain was whispering at him to re-visit the mill, face it square, not stand around drunkenly spouting verse and pretending all was well.

_Climbin' heaven and gazing on the earth?_

He'd always enjoyed perfect recall. Always enjoyed showing it off. The ability to regurgitate poetry lent him the gloss of education, a shine that came in damn useful at times. And it was far preferable to any other current train of thought. He judged himself fortunate to have such steely control over his mental activities.

_Wandering companionless ... among the stars ..._

His voice was scratchy from tobacco and the chilly air. The weather was milder than it should be at this time of the year, but still too cold to be hanging about at night in a single layer of clothing. That was kind of exhilerating, however. Ezra considered he'd made progress now that he'd turned his back on Mr. Larabee's concealing duster. He shivered a little, nevertheless.

_Among the stars that have a different birth._

Attracted by the milky light visible through the trees to his left, Ezra stepped off the bridge, began to wind his way along a dim path that would take him behind the church. It wasn't his custom to smoke two cigars in a row but biting and lighting, the sting on his throat and the tobacco taste were action and sensations that kept Ezra feeling in control. Coming up behind the church he fumbled the second cigar, dropped it to the ground. Was just bending to pick it up, cursing the fact that Josiah wasn't at home and therefore the whole back yard was in total darkness, when a footfall made him freeze.

"Hush," said a voice, and a hammer cocked right by his ear. As he straightened, a second gun was poked into his ribs. He hardly had time to take a breath before the jacket slid from his shoulders and his arms were gathered behind him. The rancid smell of Link Chain's body odor instantly made him want to lose his broiled chicken and dumplings. The Derringer slid the wrong way up his sleeve.

Then he was shoved into the clapboard wall at the back of the church. His toe stubbed into the heavy iron boot-scraper at the bottom of the steps.

"You spoke your lines real nice. Just what I'd expect from you, pretty."

Matt Bracken's hard body slammed against him.

The miserable inevitability of the whole thing hit Ezra like a shovel in the face.


	10. Chapter 10

_Be near me when my light is low,_

_When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick_

_And tingle; and the heart is sick,_

_And all the wheels of Being slow._ ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

* * *

At first, all Ezra could think was that his barely-healed ribs might snap under the pressure of the shotgun muzzle. He imagined the bones brittle, delicate as dry twigs. Then a slow wash of fear began to make him dizzy. He thought that if Bracken touched him, if he felt those hands on his skin one more time, even for a second, he would lose control of his bodily functions.

"Can't move, can you?"

Bracken's words were damp against his neck. The moist breaths rippled his hairline.

"Feels good, don't it?"

Ezra took brief, fuzzy stock of his circumstances.

_Alone ... hour, maybe, since I've been seen ... no-one knows ..._

Cataloguing things, memorizing them - it was more than an instructional pastime, it was practically an instinct now.

_Man's a killer ... he wants you ... not thinking straight ..._

He often did it to calm himself. Even with his face in the wet earth outside the mill he'd tried to do it, to elevate his thought processes somehow while his body was trashed.

_Your brain, Ezra. Play the game with your brain._

One arm was twisted between his scapulae, pinned by the wrist. All the muscles were pulling, the wayward shoulder joint lifting from its moorings, determined to break free. The other arm was trapped beneath his chest. The little Derringer was safe in his sleeve, the muzzle touching the inside of his wrist. It was something of a comfort, even though useless to him unless he had more room.

Bracken had kicked his feet apart. Ezra thought he could feel the sharp jut of the man's hip grinding against his tail-bone. Perhaps it was that.

_Dear God let it be that._

Link Chain's sawn-off dug into his ribs from the side. That was the key element, Ezra felt. That was the thing he needed not to lose sight of, whatever he did next.

And he was on his own. Mustn't forget that, either.

The saloon was a long way from here, given that one tweak of Link Chain's forefinger would blow a hole right through him. Far as anyone knew, Ezra was peacefully asleep in bed, not dangling here over the abyss.

The shot would summon them. They would arrive, eventually.

Too late, of course.

A second time, too late.

It occurred to Ezra that the balance sheet of survival had looked healthy up to now. He had been saved, many times, just as he, he supposed, had contributed somewhat to his associates' tally of reasons for gratitude.

Such luck does not last indefinitely.

The rogue card turns up in the end. It always turns up - unless you cheat, like the low-down swindler you are.

Ezra swallowed, gritted his teeth.

Cheating Fate. That was the hardest con of all.

* * *

Vin walked his supper off and came to claim his night-cap, glad to find Chris in the saloon, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle, hand closed over a drink that he didn't seem to have touched. Larabee appeared sleepy but Vin knew better.

JD was sitting at the table with a beer. He looked sleepy, too, and Vin figured that was for real. They acknowledged one another with no more than a rueful tip of chin.

"All quiet?"

Chris nodded.

"Just us?"

Chris uncrossed his ankles, re-crossed them the opposite way.

"Nathan's workin'. Ezra went ta bed. Josiah's not feelin' too friendly. Leastways, not with us." He used his eyes to point out Josiah sitting at the back of the saloon playing chequers with the butcher's son, a pale and lanky youth with a studious air.

"Buck?"

Chris turned his glass in a slow circle on the table. "Buck," he said. "Now there's a tale. He's not here, that's all I know."

"Ain't you noticed?" JD grinned, sly. "He's bin gone since yesterday afternoon."

Vin didn't like the sound of that. Since Chris had first un-earthed him in Four Corners, Buck's cheerful presence in and around town had been, for the most part, as satisfying as a lazy summer sundowner. It had been as welcome as a hot bath someone else was paying for. He hefted a goddamn Peacemaker better than any man Vin had ever seen, too. Whatever the hell had been going on, Buck had been a lynchpin, a cornerstone. Vin could have kicked himself, not to mention Chris and JD. Letting Buck Wilmington drift off downstream and out of sight was close to unforgivable.

"Maybe I'll go find him," he suggested. "Don't seem right."

"His choice." Chris was short. "You stayin' for a drink?"

Vin turned towards the bar and then back to the table. He wouldn't let Larabee deflect him. "Buck should be here. Iffen we're gonna let him leave, might as well all leave."

JD looked at his feet.

"Yeah, well don't think I haven't thought about it." Chris had that tone about him that told Vin he was squaring up for some serious unraveling. He finally raised the glass of whisky to his lips. "Besides, might be outa our hands. Reckon the Judge may feel like re-considering the arrangement." He drank.

"Shit." Vin shook his head. He hadn't yet learned how to keep Chris on track, could only say and do what his instincts told him. "Judge won't find anyone else as cheap. And hell ... I'm gonna go find Buck. Somethin' else comes down the pipes, we'll need him. You know where he is, JD?"

"I've tried talkin' to him, ta find out where his mind's at, but he don't want to talk to me. All he wants to do is shack up with this Lucille. I don't know much about her, jus' that she's sweet enough for Buck to ride half the day to visit. Reckon he's still visitin' ... reckon he'll be there until tomorrow at least."

Vin thought for a while about the reality of winkling Buck out of some warm bed in another town. Of how much the man would resent it. He looked to the bar again. Chris was watching him, entertained by his indecision.

JD suddenly sat up straight, not sleepy anymore.

"Heck!" he said. "No he ain't."

Vin turned his head to the right, a tingle of readiness running across his shoulders. There was a commotion outside and then the batwings sprang open with a shudder.

Buck himself barged through them from the street. He was moving fast, looked like thunder and was dragging a man in a squashed stove-pipe hat behind him. Chris uncrossed his ankles once again, laid down his glass.

"Buck," he said.

The man in the stove-pipe hat found himself marched right across the saloon and deposited in a chair. He didn't look dangerous, wasn't carrying an obvious weapon. Looked mighty annoyed though.

"Buck?" Chris said again.

"We've got a situation."

He didn't know why, but a stab of pure ice pierced Vin under the ribs.

"Go check on Ezra," Buck said. His face and tone of voice made JD scramble from his chair and move, fast. He took the stairs two at a time, disappeared around the corner.

"Tell us what you saw." Buck's grip on his arm was tight enough that the man looked panicky. "Just what you said to me."

"Was just coming for a beer, mister, I ain't done nothin'. I told you."

Buck made an impatient gesture. "We both just rode in from Eagle Bend," he said to Chris. "Was passing the time of day with this feller and ... now come on, tell me again who you saw back there."

"Who'd you see?" Chris repeated the question, gained stove-pipe hat man's undivided attention immediately.

The man spoke slowly, clearly realizing that he had most to gain from being just as helpful as he possibly could. "A tall guy with a ponytail, like I said. Gray hair. Black eyes." He indicated his own clothing. "Dressed in brown, no side-gun. There was him and a real big feller together, out back of the saloon. They were just standing around. Asked me for a light."

_Damn it._

Chris put the heel of one hand to his forehead for a second. Vin figured he was wondering whether to overturn the table.

"What the hell's going on?"

Had Bracken evaded his captors again, like some freakshow escape-artist, or was that wire more hopeful than accurate? Had he really never been goddamn apprehended in the first place? If so, for all these days they'd just sat around in the sun congratulating themselves. Patting themselves on the back, expecting Ezra to damn well get over it and knuckle down to business.

_Damn it to bitching hell._

The icicle poked at Vin again. Chris looked like a spirit had just stomped over his grave. Josiah had left his corner now and was standing quietly at the other side of the visitor from Eagle Bend.

"How long ago?"

"Two days."

"They say anything else?"

"I swear, mister, all they did was ask me for a light."

"They mention this town?"

Stove-pipe hat man crinkled his brow. "Well, I ..."

Chris stretched across the table, grasped the man by the wrist, upped the ante by several degrees, as he tended to do.

"Tell me."

"Guy with the ponytail ... asked ... asked me how far to Four Corners."

All eyes went up as JD rounded the corner of the stairs, began to come down, placing both hands on the banister rails and jumping the last six steps.

"He ain't there."

Buck let go the man in a fit of concern and annoyance. "Shit, Ezra ... why pick tonight to go for a goddamn yonder by yaself?"

Chris let go too. "JD, go git Nathan. If Bracken and Chain were in Eagle Bend two days ago, they could be anywhere by now. Need to find Ezra fast, stash him somewhere safe."

"He ain't carryin' his side-arm." JD's voice hitched. "Or the conversion. May be carryin' the Derringer, but ... damn, he ain't strapped up the rig. He may be out there with nothin'."

"Well that's goddamn perfect." Chris's chair tipped as he got up, was sent on its way to the floor by the flap of his coat as he moved. He glared at Wilmington. "You with us?"

Buck's jaw locked. "I'm here, I'm fuckin' here. They ain't gonna get to him, not again."

"Josiah?"

"There's no cause to doubt me, brother. We end this tonight."

The rush of adrenaline that washed Vin's mind was ice-cool.

_Best hope you two ain't come to ya senses too late then._

Wasn't Chris always saying he'd chosen them for their weaknesses as much as their strengths?

Well hell. That seemed like a pretty dumb call.

* * *

"All right, I got him, I got him." Bracken's tone was honeyed. "Back off a ways, Link, I got him."

Ezra felt Link Chain's shotgun ease out of his side, even as Bracken's pistol nudged the hollow at the base of his skull.

"Let's get you turned around shall we? Come on now. Round ya come, I gotta powerful need to look into yore goddamn beautiful eyes. Yup, then I'll know ya pleased to see me."

Ezra followed the poke of the metal, easing around step by baby step until he was facing out into the silent dark of the trees behind Josiah's church. As he moved, Bracken's body leaned into him all the way, uncompromising. His left arm remained trapped behind him, his right was pinned at an angle by the weight of Bracken's torso. There was only a faint shadow to indicate the presence of Link, but Ezra could hear him breathing. He'd felt the Derringer shift backwards towards his elbow. If it slipped too far or changed position, he wouldn't be able to handle it. Or else, Bracken would discover it. Right now the arm was immobilized anyhow. He needed Bracken to pull back, just a half inch.

The barrel of the Colt was touching lightly into the side of his neck. Bracken still had him body-checked against the clapboard wall. Ezra tried hard not to flinch as he felt fingers fumbling at his shirt. He wished to God he'd not been such a lazy, ill-dressed jackass as to leave his room without a vest and jacket.

_Bide your time, Ezra. Play the game with your brain._

The flat of Bracken's hand splayed across Ezra's chest, fingertips working at buttons, worming to get underneath. Their bodies were so close he didn't have much room to maneuver but it didn't seem to constrict his determined, probing fingers. Each button was worked loose in turn down to the waistband of his pants. The ends of shirt were tugged free. When the barrier was breached, the hand that slipped across Ezra's goose-fleshed skin was harsh, rough-textured. Bracken hummed in delight, stroking back and forth.

"Yes." He spoke languidly, like he was savoring every sensation. "You ... you're a pearl all right." The heel of the hand moved down, pressed hard into Ezra's belly, made his muscles jump and ribs contract violently, desperate to protect.

Bracken's eyes tracked, unblinking. They stared with focused intent, wide and dark. They roved round Ezra's hairline, into his eyes, along his jaw, up over his cheeks, back to his eyes, then down, resting finally on his mouth. Ezra pulled in his core muscles tighter. He breathed high in his chest, slow as he could, quiet as he could.

_Bide your time, Ezra Standish. Pick your moment. Don't rush this game or you will lose._

A tongue flicked out, insistent, pressed against Ezra's lower lip. He felt teeth nip, a corresponding coil of pain in his bowels. Bracken bit harder, drew blood, moved his head back.

"Ya feel nice. Real classy and nice. And you know what I want. Reckon I can make you like it, too." He pulled his head further back, thoughtful. "Damn ... but look at you. Rather die right here, bullet in the guts, wouldn't you? Rather than let me." He dug the barrel of the Colt in again, moved his forefinger like he was stroking the trigger. "That's all right. You'd still be warm." He nodded. "So, ya gonna let me, pretty? Gonna let me, or you gonna die?"

Ezra licked at the blood before he could stop himself, caught the flash of heat in Bracken's eyes. A voice in his head was bellowing at him not to say anything, not to say a goddamn word because it would only make things worse, would only give Bracken more of him.

_Brain, Ezra. Use your God-given brain._

He couldn't help himself, God-given or no. He just couldn't damn well help himself.

"I have a choice?" The coolness of his own tone quite terrified him. He could feel Bracken's fierce arousal, could almost smell it. "Sodomy and murder generally go together for you, don't they?"

The gun was screwed in a notch further. "Well," Bracken said. "That may be true. But see ... I have a mind to keep you breathing a little longer. I have a mind to have you to myself. Take you away and have you ... all to myself." He grinned a small-boy grin. "Get some squeaking and moaning out of ya. You were sweet as hell, but too damn quiet. Some beggin' would be nice ... oh please, Mattie, please ... I could like that."

Ezra felt a sudden tug at the buckle of his belt, followed by a sigh of malign content. His eyes would have slammed shut, only he needed to keep Bracken in plain sight. Panic was roaring through him, and fury, too. A man couldn't help himself if he was touched like that. Full to the brim with hate and fear and he still wouldn't be able to help himself. It was the worst betrayal Ezra could think of. One he couldn't bear, one he wouldn't accept.

He truly felt he'd held on long enough. They weren't coming for him this time. The rogue card had turned up. It was there, staring at him, and the best hand Ezra could muster might not save him now. He'd play it, though, all the damn same. It was time.

Link Chain was somewhere close in the dark, gun trained.

"So far, Mr. Bracken." Given the naked terror trickling through his bones, Ezra congratulated himself on how damn in command he sounded. "So far ... and no further."

Bracken quirked a brow, stimulated by the challenge. The brow questioned what possible move Ezra could make. He closed his fingers around the belt buckle and his knuckles brushed flesh.

"Oh _fuck_ ... you goddamn little whore ..." Bracken shivered at the touch, eyes flickering shut. He was momentarily overcome. His body relaxed and Ezra could move his arm.

An instant of powerful clarity came to him. It was a relief. At the same time as conceding that his next action would almost certainly cost him his life, it felt unutterably good to be in control of what would happen.

Ezra had no last message for himself other than _do it now._

He jerked his elbow sharply, like he had a whip in his hand, felt the swift rush of metal down his sleeve. As the Derringer slid across his wrist and into his palm, he swung the arm up again, found the trigger and fired point blank. It was a trick he'd spent hours and hours practicing without bullets, and the results had rarely been satisfactory. You needed the perfect angle, the perfect amount of force, the perfect goddamn shirt. In truth, he half expected the unpredictable little beauty to blow his entire hand off the end of his arm. Instead, a .22 caliber slug tore into cloth and flesh, its muffled crack sounding in his ears. There was the burn of powder on his fingertips, the splat of warm blood on his face. And as he anticipated the pain of the answering shot, he almost believed he felt it ... Link's shotgun, blasting through him above his groin ... or Bracken's Colt ... or both.

Bracken made a strangled, high-pitched noise, a near-hysterical keening sound. His throat functioned but his fingers didn't. He gurgled, eyes bulging in disbelief, and then he dropped his Colt. Hands grabbed for purchase on Ezra's shirt, scrabbling for a hand-hold. The two of them turned in the still air, like they were dancing, Ezra trying to push the body away, loose off another shot, Bracken trying to hold on. As he rotated, shoving at the weight, Ezra felt his back tweak sharply in protest. Bracken grabbed uselessly at Ezra's knees as he went down.

Ezra staggered. He was more intent now on getting himself around to meet the oncoming surge of Link Chain. He only half saw him, didn't understand why the shotgun had never fired. And everything, every second of every minute since he'd opened his mouth in the barn and sealed his fate, it all came out in a single strike. He swung and hit Link Chain square on his iron jaw. It was a sweet strike, perfectly aimed, a blow of swift and concentrated power. He felt the bones in his hand crumple and snap.

Link huffed and fell backwards hard. His head hit the jutting stone sill of a little window with a resounding crack. Bouncing forward, Link reached for Ezra. And missed. Three hundred pounds of muscle and flesh dragged the big man down fast, and the very edge of the boot-scraper buried itself into the corner of his eye. His body flumped over it like a dropped coat, and was still.

* * *

The single, tinny gunshot that rang out on the night air was instantly recognizable.

Ezra knew they would have heard it. He knew now they were coming. Could almost picture them flowing towards him, an unstoppable tide sweeping in from every corner of town.

Josiah and JD had just left the Hotel, perhaps. They'd dipped in, hoping against hope to find Ezra sleepily seated in an armchair smoking a cigar and reading one of the newspapers or books that sometimes got left behind by departing visitors. Would have discovered Mr. Standish hadn't been seen doing any such thing, however. Not for weeks.

Vin might still be gratefully patting Ezra's horse as it stood, bemused, in its stall at the Livery. His chin would lift as he worked out exactly how far away the shot had been fired, exactly which direction it came from. Ducking under the great, wagging head, he'd reach for his rifle and head out at a run, leaving the doors wide.

Buck and Chris, wandering opposite boardwalks to see if they might just un-earth Ezra from a dark corner, hunkered in with his flask, would stop still at the sound. They'd meet in the middle of the street, begin to sprint. Always worked so well together, those two.

And, forewarned of trouble, Nathan would have been bracing himself for a summons. He'd take up his bag, charge down the steps, hit the dirt at the bottom so fast he'd nearly go over, then begin to race up the dark street towards the church.

The moon hung over the trees, brilliant and astounding.

It was just what Ezra had come out to see. He was there when Buck and Chris arrived, standing motionless in a patch of faint light, looking wonderingly down at the bodies sprawled at his feet. The Derringer was still in one hand, and as his friends appeared he waved it in what he thought was friendly acknowledgment.

"Oh my God, Ezra, ya hit?" Buck's hands reached in fear for the flapping, blood-spattered shirt.

Ezra tried to shake his head. There had been no answering gunshot. The knowledge made him feel weak, made him smile stupidly.

"Not mine," he said as pins and needles prickled his fingertips.

"They dead?" Buck said. "Both of 'em?" There was admiration and relief in his eyes, Ezra was sure of it. It was damn good to see Buck. Immediately he was flooded with warmth, felt content about the whole shooting match - his survival, his life, his comrades. He had the brief and precious thought that everything would be all right now. Lord but he was one lucky sonofabitch. Thank God everything would be all right.

Then he saw Buck's face turn doubtful, begin to cloud. "Ezra?"

Ezra's knees lost tension. He felt cold and tried to sit before he went ass-over-elbows. The Derringer dropped out of his suddenly nerveless hand and clunked quietly under his feet.

"No," a voice said. "No, damnit."

It was Chris, clear as a bell.

Ezra felt arms encircle him tightly as his legs gave way. The embrace pained him, ground a desperate protest from his throat that tasted of metal. He wondered how in hell he'd managed to pull his muscles so damn badly that he couldn't even stand up anymore.

As Ezra's dead weight dragged him to the ground, Chris could feel wet warmth nudging through his fingers.

Buck had followed them down. "You shot Bracken ..." His voice was slightly tinged with hysteria. "Hoss, you damn well killed him!"

"This ain't right," Chris said, sounding confused. "What the hell they do to you? Fuck, Ezra, we got you home, we damn well got you home, this ain't right."

He couldn't get a grip on the sodden fabric. Ezra's hand lifted from the ground, and then sagged down again, palm up, fingers curling. Eyes opened and closed lazily as he seemed to come and go from blackness to the alley and back again.

Footsteps galloped round the corner. It was Vin, who skidded to a halt, closely followed by JD, then Josiah.

All Vin seemed focused on at first was the yawning shirtfront, the unbuckled belt. "Shit, they didn't ... Jesus damnit, tell me they didn't ...?" His gaze swung to Bracken lying on his back a yard or two from Chris's feet and then at the hulk of Link Chain on his face under the steps. "Aw, Ezra ..."

"Here," Nathan's voice said, "I'm right here." He was already opening his bag, pushing his way through. Some of the contents spilled to the ground as he dropped. "What happened? Ezra take a bullet?"

"Bracken took the bullet," Buck said. "Ez shot him." He looked up at JD, standing with his fist against his mouth, then across at Chris. "I brought the guy fast as I could when I knew, Chris, swear to God ... fast as I could."

"What the hell? Ezra bleeding? Why's he damn well bleeding?"

"This," Vin said, boot poking at something on the ground next to Link Chain's slack hand. A stiletto, wickedly slender, its six-inch blade shiny and wet.

"Fucker stabbed him in the back." Chris's face twisted in disbelief. "Damn and he's bleedin' fast. I'm doin' shit here, Nathan, can't stop it."

It was dark out the back of the church. Dark and suddenly chilly.

Nathan slapped a wad of cloth into Chris's suddenly outstretched hand.

"Press down to the bone and don't let up."

He looked up at Josiah, didn't have to ask. Silent, Josiah took the back steps of the church in two strides, JD at his heels. Halting at the top, he stared down at the men on the ground, alive and dead, a stricken look on his face.

"Hot water, blankets," JD said impatiently, pushing past him into the church.

Ezra was attempting to struggle away from the hands that pinned him down, demanding to be released.

"He didn't shoot me," he kept saying as if they were idiots. "Let me up. Just let me get up." His voice was strong, stronger than it had been when he'd said the exact same words to them back at the mill. The horror of being restrained was overtaking rational thought, was lending him a strength he really oughtn't to have. And the power needed to keep him subdued was the source of a vicious circle that Chris feared might spin out of control.

"You hafta take it easy." Nathan was pressing him down again. "Stop all a' that, we're tryin' to help ya here. Lord, nothin' but trouble with you." His voice was steady and compelling. "Listen now, it's not bad, I swear. This? Jist a little scratch, nothing to worry about. No, no, stay with us now." He shook an arm, frowning at the misshapen hand. "Shit, what else ya bin doin'? Shootin' people and smashin' yaself up ... hell, you'll be the death of me, Ezra, I swear."

"Not dead, Chris," Buck said through his teeth. "Bracken's not dead."

Chris swung his gaze to the side, shocked to see those unblinking eyes, the slightly open mouth pulling in air. Bracken's face was paper white. He was alive, conscious and staring right at Ezra, trying to form words. Ezra tracked Larabee's eyes. He rolled his neck and stared right back.

"Nathan," Buck repeated. "He's not dead."

"Don't give a shit." Nathan didn't even look over. "Gonna lift Ezra, all right? Gonna take him inside. Don't let go your pressure, not for a second. He needs every goddamn drop."

Chris fought to wrest Ezra's attention from Matt Bracken even as he struggled to do as Nathan commanded. It was as if Ezra was caught in a trap, couldn't drag his gaze away even if he'd wanted. Chris nudged him firmly in the side with his knee. "Hey, need you lookin' at me. Come on, you ain't lookin' at me. Do as you're goddamn told for once. Time to get the hell out this cold, Ezra."

Bracken didn't move his gaze either, not even when Vin stood right over him, pulled back the hammer of his rifle with a violent crack.

But Ezra's eyes closed. They drifted shut, sealed out the world, and a triumphant twitch tugged the corner of Bracken's mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

_As memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven, it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape_ ~John Lancaster Spalding

* * *

"Open your eyes, Ezra. God's sake, open your eyes."

Josiah's back room looked like nothing so much as a battlefield hospital. Lamplight flickered against the walls and a trail of red drips meandered across the floorboards towards the low cot. Occasionally there was the slap of water against tin.

Ezra's clothes lay discarded at their feet. They knew he'd been caught, trapped, undone. All Chris could think was that they hadn't protected him, not for one, goddamn, bitching second. Too busy tying themselves up in knots, thinking how fucking bad they were feeling. And now here he was, laid out and stripped to the bone again, everything sliced and hauled off him, just like before. Like he was nothing.

And this time those bastards had got him. _This time, they'd really got him._

Nathan knelt by the cot with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands slick.

The scene was ugly.

Made Chris's jaw ache his teeth were gritted so hard. His hair was falling into his face and the skin on his fingers felt tight with dried and drying blood. From the opposite side of the cot to Nathan he tapped none too gently at the cool cheek laying near his hand.

"Come on now." Nathan had to make his voice heard. "Stop that. He ain't up to it. Ain't up to being knocked about."

Chris couldn't let it go. "Just don't want the last fuckin' thing he saw to be that bastard lookin' at him like that." It made sense, seemed like the kind of thing they could all agree upon, the kind of mutual understanding that had eluded them lately. "Come on, Ez, open your goddamn eyes, just for a second. Look at me."

That Ezra looked to be dying here in front of them seemed like another thing they could all agree upon.

"Leave him be, Chris, God's sake leave him be."

Chris turned, kicked away the clothes, his frustration vibrating through the atmosphere.

"What we doin' with Bracken?" JD's voice at the edge of the room was nervous. "He's still conscious. Vin has him covered."

"He's not comin' in here."

"Gonna leave him to die out in the street, Chris?"

"He's _not_ comin' in here."

"What we gonna do then?" JD sounded a little desperate.

"Maybe Vin'll finish him off," Chris said. "Maybe I'll just let him. We don't hafta to be goddamn noble with Matt Bracken. We don't hafta."

"Vin won't do that." JD sounded certain.

"He'll die in the goddamn street then."

"Damnit, Ezra!" The sound of Nathan's helpless fury cut across them, echoed in the large room. "You ain't gonna bleed to death on me. Not in a church."

"Stop shoutin' at him," JD said in a small voice. "All of you, just stop shoutin' at him."

There was quiet for a while save for Ezra's over-breathing.

"Nathan?"

"Need iodine." Nathan's voice was clipped, uncompromising. "Thread. Bandages. Run on over to my place, JD. Go on now, you can't do anythin by standing there feelin' bad." He motioned to Buck to stay right he was, holding Ezra in place. "Where's Josiah? Need more hot water. Gonna be stitching him up and then we gotta move him. He's too cold here."

Josiah's voice drifted in from the body of the church. They couldn't hear the words, but the tone sounded angry.

JD was glad to get away from the smell of the blood. He slipped through the half-open door into the church, took a few paces towards the preacher standing by his lectern, wasn't sure how to interrupt.

"Enough, Lord!"

JD hadn't heard that tone of voice in this place before. It seemed more like a command than a request, made him cringe a little.

Josiah, it seemed, was not prepared to give any quarter. He'd had his battles with the Almighty for sure. JD suspected he'd ignored Him at times, argued very often. But he'd done His work, too. Had really never asked for much.

"This man has had enough!" Josiah could hardly keep the raging resentment from his voice. "He's risen above his tribulations, Lord. He's found his place, even when some of us turned him away. He did a good deed, a brave deed, and there is no need to take him. It would serve no purpose." Josiah looked at his candles and the altar, the jagged edges of the window Ezra had destroyed. He pressed his palms on his Bible. "It would be ... unfair." He frowned. "I know you love us all, even Matthew Bracken. But I would like to advise you ..." He trailed off, noticing JD in the shadows.

"Josiah," JD said in a dry voice. "Nathan says he needs more hot water."

Josiah's eyes burned at him from under the formidable brow. He laid the Bible down. "I would like to advise you," he continued, moving down the aisle and passing JD. "To overlook his sin."

JD swallowed. Ideas of right and wrong had muddied his brain of late, that was true, but he'd not been thinking about sin. He wanted to stop Josiah, ask him what he meant, understand to which particular sin of Ezra's Josiah was referring.

Were there really that many?

He stood for a minute in the dark, listening to the sounds from next door. He thought he heard Chris curse. Thought maybe Ezra let loose a stifled moan, was hushed by Nathan. Was pretty sure Nathan and Josiah exchanged angry words.

The evening before they reached Sharpeville they'd sat in a tight circle eating poorly-cooked food and laughing about a whole bunch of stuff they probably shouldn't have been laughing about. They'd played cards in the firelight, talked deep into the night, all of them awake and together. It had been nothing but good. Right up until the moment Matt Bracken had spoken in the Sharpeville saloon, made his presence felt, JD had been content. Even though he'd hardly acknowledged it at the time, he'd felt grounded, capable, supported. Now something unexpected had wounded them, and they were scraping and picking at it as if such short-term relief would heal the sore.

We hafta stop this, JD thought. We really hafta stop this.

He still hoped one of the others was going to step up and show exactly how.

* * *

At nearing four in the morning Vin still sat at the bottom of the steps. JD had been out and back and now came out again. He lingered awhile, but he and Vin couldn't find too much to say to one another.

Link Chain's body, covered in a sheet, had been moved flush against the wall. It had taken all Vin's strength and fortitude to roll him off the boot-scraper. Bracken was curled a few feet away, hands clutching a thick square of cloth against his stomach. His eyes were closed but he was breathing calm and regular. Vin had been looking at him all this time hoping he'd stop, but he hadn't.

"Doin' better than Ez," JD said in a low voice. Not quite low enough, because Vin snapped a finger to his lips. Bracken didn't need to know about Ezra. He didn't need to know a goddamn thing.

JD hunched a little in his jacket.

Vin knew the kid's regrets were heaping up on him minute by minute. "He'll be just fine, JD. You'll get ya chance."

"I'm only stayin 'til I know, one way or another."

"Sure. Just don't go racking up any more people you gotta make ya peace with."

"Buck's the one who's mad."

"Shit," Vin said. "We're all mad, kid. That ain't the important thing right now."

JD made a helpless gesture. "I know ya right, I know it. But I can't help the way I feel."

"Leavin' ain't gonna make ya feel better."

"Why'd you always do it then?"

Vin could have pulled his own hair out. "Diff'rent," he insisted. "'Sides, I always come back."

And that was a strange truth that hung in the gloomy air for a while. JD slouched where he was, hand on the back of his neck, one toe kicking a furrow in the sandy earth. Eventually he muttered something and wandered away. Vin went back to watching Bracken. The injured man only stirred when a slow and somber procession passed, moving Ezra to Nathan's. Vin stood silent and watched. By the time Bracken had opened his eyes, they were gone and there was only Vin. A minute later there was Josiah, too.

"Nathan said to bring him in now."

Vin dragged his gaze from the end of the alley and back to Bracken. "We gotta patch him up?"

Josiah came slowly to the bottom of the steps. "Jist get him situated. Nathan'll come when he can."

Vin wanted to ask after Ezra but he wouldn't do it out loud.

Josiah understood that well enough. "About as bad off as he looks," was all he said, and although his eyes were on Matt Bracken, Vin knew who he meant.

Bracken moaned all the way inside. Josiah had thrown a blanket over the blood-soaked cot and they laid him on top, threw another blanket across his body.

"Water?" Vin asked unwillingly.

Josiah raised his brows. "Succour for the suffering," he agreed. "Perhaps he will succeed in drinking what Ezra was unable to manage."

"Damn." One of life's huge, gutting injustices was in play, Vin was sure of it. He took a cup from Josiah nevertheless, held it to Bracken's lips.

The injured man drank four or five good mouthfuls, then lay back and groaned.

"Shot me in the gut. Little whore's meaner'n he looks."

Vin, who'd been sitting ready to offer the cup again, placed it on the floor instead, got up and moved away, squaring his back towards Bracken. He felt Josiah come to stand close behind.

"You go. I'm all right here."

"Gonna say prayers for him?" Vin jerked his head at the cot. His tone was bitter as the cud.

"Maybe I will. Some for you, Vin. Some for us all."

* * *

Judge Travis might have had cause to wonder what in hell was going wrong with law enforcement in the far western territories. Certainly he didn't feel much inclined to consign his grandson to a grisly fate in Four Corners, where it seemed even seven peacekeepers couldn't keep men like Bracken, Chain and Wilton behind bars long enough for the army to come and deal with them. He was heavily inclined to re-consider their tenure.

After learning that an arrest had been made in Carson City, the Judge experienced a brief spell of satisfaction. Then he felt he couldn't much blame Larabee after all, not when he heard that those colorful reports of Bracken and Chain's apprehension had been somewhat ... exaggerated.

A positively algebraic telegraph arrived.

_B +C here STOP ES bad hurt STOP C dead + B dying STOP Who takes custody of bodies? STOP CJL_

The Judge was shocked, in spite of himself, that they'd come back to meet their end in Larabee's town. Larabee was angry, the Judge could tell. Unfortunately, the Governor was still pretty angry, too.

_Will return STOP Governor wants independent verification STOP Hon O Travis._

He wondered how on earth Standish had gotten himself into a mess this time. He knew snatches of the man's history. That's all they were, though. Snatches and rumor. All was smoke and mirrors, far as Travis had ascertained, very little as immaculate as it appeared. It was hard to pin down any proven certainties. Well, except maybe one. What there didn't seem to be much doubt about was that trouble followed Ezra P. Standish at a determined lope, like a hungry bloodhound.

* * *

Ten days' shy of his seventeenth birthday, Ezra had arrived in Savannah, Georgia, with his mother. They'd been solvent at the time, thanks to the last will and testament of her late second husband. On a sweltering midsummer afternoon, they'd sailed upriver from the ocean and been escorted to rooms in a building choked by Spanish moss.

Ezra remembered that time as if it was yesterday.

Five days' shy, forever wandering to find adventure, he'd met a boy his age at the docks. They'd hung around the falling-down cotton warehouses, smoking tobacco and playing cards. Theirs had been an easy, temporary friendship.

Three days' shy, Ezra had helped net a considerable sum of money from some gentlemen visiting a gaming-house Maude had astutely identified as a gold-mine. The gentlemen, flinty-eyed bachelors from the north, thought the cocky, quick-witted Ezra P. was a delightful entertainment until they discovered they'd been conned. Maude had quickly appropriated most of the winnings, and with the remainder burning a hole in his pocket, Ezra and his friend had sat in a square crowded with dogwood and the last of the magnolia flowers, drinking Bourbon and laughing.

It had been almost too hot to breathe.

Two days' shy, in the very same square, the gentlemen had come for their money and more.

"Hush."

_Tell me, are you a sinful child, pretty little Ezra P.? Is this boy?_

They would have had their way with Ezra's friend, only Ezra wouldn't let them.

_Are you asking for it, Ezra P.? Are you begging me?_

Ten brutal minutes in the magnolia-scented dark. The bruises had lasted all summer long.

"Y'all right. Come on now. Gonna ruin all Nathan's good work if ya fuss like that."

_Ain't no fun unless they beg._

"Hush now, you're all right. Just dreamin'. Ya not there, ya right here and ya need to sleep."

Afterwards, Ezra's friend had said nothing. Not one word. His silence nearly killed Ezra.

"I guess I don't know what ta say. Vin's mad at me. Can't say as I blame him, but I don't know how to thank you right. Know I shoulda spoke up before, just ... well jeez I'm sorry it happened and they hurt ya like that, because you're one of the best, Ezra. One of the best I've met."

The ground was hard, Ezra's throat was full of earth and the night was hot, so scorching hot he could hardly drag breath into his tired lungs.

_Eight bits for a poke, I heard. How d'you like that?_

"Damn, Ezra, please ... you gotta quiet down. Shit, I'm goin for Nathan."

Coins rained down on his head. Something crashed across the other side of the square. Ezra supposed it was the gate clanging shut as everyone ran. The gate clanging shut and leaving him all alone.

* * *

Nobody else stopped getting sick or breaking their fool bones, just because Nathan Jackson was presiding over a battle for survival. Folk didn't stop drinking and playing cards in the saloon just because its resident cardsharp wasn't brightening the day by being engagingly duplicitous in their midst. There was the usual sprawl of small-time troublemakers and threats to be investigated around town. None of that stopped. Somehow felt like it should.

It wasn't even that serious a wound, mind. The stiletto had streaked through muscle, hadn't hit anything that'd kill him outright, far as Nathan could tell. Ezra had bled all right. Fast and hard and messy, but even then not enough to wash away whatever filth had been on the knife-blade. The unconsciousness that had fallen over him like a blanket outside the church was deep and he'd already worked himself up into a furious fever by the time morning arrived.

"It's bad," Nathan had said. "But it shouldn't be this bad. What the hell's he playing at?"

He watched Ezra's legs for movement for the first hours. Said if the knife had severed the spinal cord they might as well all pray for him to die straight away.

"How can you say somethin' like that!" Buck had demanded. "What the hell kind of a friend are you?"

"You set things right with him, Buck? You ever gotten around to it?" Nathan had bitten back. "You and JD and Josiah ... you said one goddamn decent thing to him since it happened?"

When Chris couldn't stand it a moment more, he went out to his old place.

Nathan couldn't leave town and Vin didn't want to, which was a newsworthy item Chris couldn't get his head around. The other three were drifting about like they were looking for a new home. At least Chris had somewhere to go.

Solitude was a comfort but it also felt like an indulgence he couldn't afford. Plenty of time for it once they'd lost Ezra and Travis had terminated the agreement.

"You reckon that's what's gonna happen?" Vin demanded of him as he'd prepared to ride out.

"Lookin' like it." He'd baulked at the way Vin was keeping his hand looped into the reins of his horse, preventing departure. "Tell me you see it another way."

"Ain't nobody given up on nothin' yet, cowboy."

Chris hesitated. He'd told Nathan he'd be up to sit with Ezra for the night, and the relief that greeted the promise had made him wonder if maybe Vin was right about all this goddamn head of the table shit.

"Go on then," Vin said. He released the reins and made a shooing motion. "Git on out there and break somethin'."

"It'll be heads if I stay here."

Vin flapped a hand. "No, you get along now. We'll manage."

"Ezra'd call ya downright ironical."

"Huh, that right?"

"And I'd call ya a smart-mouth sonofabitch."

Chris ghosted Vin a smile and rode away at enough of a speed to loosen up some of the cords of tension that were starting to draw tight.

Out at the half-homestead that was still known as the Larabee place, there was no need to break anything. It was enough just to walk around kicking up dust and wondering if he wanted to invest himself out here once someone more goddamn official than any of them was ensconced behind a badge. Once whoever was left of them had packed up and ridden out. Chris had no more true optimism in his bones than Ezra, and was a whole lot less skilled in pretending he did. However, he was big on sticking by your friends, especially when they were in need. Buck had taught him that much.

After a couple of hours, he couldn't live with his own company anymore, and felt such a powerful pull back towards town that it surprised him.

It was dark when he arrived.

When Chris let himself into Nathan's sickroom, he was expecting Nathan to be there. It gave him a jolt to find Josiah sitting by the bed, discarded book on the floor. Wasn't who he counted on finding here at all. They'd once again exchanged fruitlessly bitter words earlier in the day, the healer and the preacher. So Vin had told him.

"Nathan couldn't keep going. He's asleep." Josiah looked near exhaustion himself.

Chris unbuckled his gun-belt, laid it quietly on the chair by the door, looked to the bed.

In the dim light of a single lamp he could see the unquiet body fighting a confusion of chills and sweats that Nathan couldn't control. The left hand was splinted and bound from wrist to fingertips. It had been fractured badly, Nathan said, hitting something solid. They guessed that'd be Link Chain, couldn't see how else the giant fell. The right hand was another white paw. Three fingers, burned by the imperfect placement of the Derringer barrel as it discharged.

Ezra's face was pale as ashes.

No severance of the spinal cord. Just grievously damaged nerves, firing off in protest.

"Hasn't Nathan given him something?"

Josiah indicated a brown glass bottle on the table by the window. "As Fortune would have it, Nathan has a goodly supply. But, as Fortune would also have it, a single swallow of such strong medication and our obstinate brother forgets how to breathe right. Hallucinates bad enough he'd scare himself to death." The way Josiah shook his head made Chris realize he'd been absent during a crisis. Once again. "Dear Lord, loading him up with laudanum might dispatch him quicker than anything else." He stroked Ezra's forehead once or twice with his big hand.

"He takin' water?"

"Ain't had much luck. Nathan has a plan but he's just too weary to see straight." Josiah sighed. "Let him sleep a few hours more if you can. Said he didn't need it, but he's wrong." After retrieving his book Josiah rose cautiously and stood where he was. "Nathan thinks I have been hard on Ezra. Always too hard."

Chris had heard Josiah on Ezra's misdemeanors all right. The strength that lay under the weakness. Or was it the weakness that lay under the strength? He'd also heard Josiah on Ezra's willingness to offer himself up for what they none of them could bring themselves to mention. And he'd heard Nathan, too. The healer had launched an unexpectedly passionate defense of the man who so often seemed to represent the worst of his formative experiences. For some reason, or maybe for a whole slew of reasons, the violation of a friend was not a simple crime they could unite behind. It had driven some kind of wedge between them all which wouldn't damn well be dislodged.

"They forced him, Josiah."

"He was quick to invite the wrong done against him, that's all I'm saying."

Chris felt a scalding, helpless anger. None of this was simple for him, either, but one thing was crystal clear. Without analysis or extrapolation, one unassailable fact was blindingly, crystal clear.

"It wasn't Ezra's fault. He did everything he could to help his friends. That's what you preach, isn't it? That's what you want from him?"

"I want him to be a righteous man."

Chris couldn't help his raised finger. "You'd better stand by him, Josiah. I won't be riding with anyone who doesn't stand by Ezra for this."

Josiah gently tapped his book against his thigh. "I told you. You have no cause to doubt me. He remains my brother, no matter what he's done."

"But that's the whole goddamn point. He hasn't _done_ anything. Would you rather he'd offered up his life instead?" Chris was trying hard not to allow his voice to raise above a hoarse whisper.

Josiah was silent, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Damnit, so suppose he'd done that." Chris lowered his voice even more because he was becoming angrier. "Suppose he'd done that. He'd be dead, and JD still woulda been ... we were what? Ten, twenty minutes away? Too damn far away to stop it. And then what? Would you and Buck have turned around and blamed the kid instead?"

"Ezra made a choice," Josiah insisted. He investigated his stubbled jaw with one hand. "And maybe it isn't the first time he's made that choice." When Chris opened his mouth to say something, to refute a claim that he didn't even properly understand, Josiah held up a hand. His voice was full of foul-tasting memory. "I have lost young men down that road before. Wilful young men who freely chose to overturn natural order and paid dearly for that choice."

"I don't know about natural order, Josiah. I just don't know." Chris sat himself down by the bed carefully, laid an unconsciously protective hand on Ezra's chest. "But look at him, he's out of his head with fever. Whatever you heard him say proves nothin'. And even if it did ... even if it did ... "

"I find Brother Ezra a challenge," Josiah allowed in a murmur. "But he should have no cause to doubt me either."

"He know that?"

"Been trying to tell him all night."

"Well you just hold on to it, Josiah. You just damn well hold on to it."

Chris supposed it would be an unbearable burden, not being able to save all the sinners. Especially when sin itself was something so goddamn easy to get back to front. He stared at the shut door for a few seconds after it closed and then looked back at the bed.

_Hell, Ezra. None of this is your goddamn fault._

"How'd you do it?" he said, moving his hand carefully. "Huh? Upsettin' Josiah when you're not even awake?" He copied Josiah's action, trying to smooth the tight furrows that bit into Ezra's forehead. "Or maybe it's him bin upsettin' you?"

There was no response, of course. Ezra was far too busy fighting potent memory and spliced nerve-endings. Chris knew the man had a healthier fear of death than any of the rest of them but that if it came to it, he'd rather go fast and messy. Not long drawn-out, lost in a nightmare.

"Shshshsh," was all he could say. He brushed fingertips along the sweaty hairline from one side to the other, wondering if Ezra needed the touch now, if he could feel it, if he could take it.

Or if it was pleasing him to lay down and die.


	12. Chapter 12

_When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on_ ~Thomas Jefferson

* * *

While Ezra insisted on not recovering his senses the way physiology suggested he should, Matt Bracken lay on the cot in the back room of the church and wouldn't die.

He was mortal injured, Nathan kept telling them. Had lead lodged somewhere secret in the left side of his belly. The entry wound was no longer bleeding, he was conscious a good deal and strong enough to talk distractedly about people they didn't know. Josiah and Vin were the only ones who'd watch him.

"Should be dead," Buck kept saying when no-one came to tell them the news they awaited. "Why ain't he dead?"

Matthew Bracken had a tenacious hold on life. He was not about to let it go.

"Just a question of time," Nathan assured them.

Bracken wasn't in near enough pain, that was all Vin could say. Told Chris he didn't like the thought, the gnawing discomfort it gave him, but he felt it true and hard. Seemed all he hoped for was that the man could see it written in his face when he looked up from his pillow searching for water, and found either Tanner or Sanchez sitting well away from him across the room.

Josiah had a lot more tolerance for being in Bracken's vicinity than Vin did, that was certain.

And Vin was beginning to lose his equanimity. Chris wasn't exactly surprised, but hell he didn't like it, hearing Tanner cut loose when he came upon yet another boil-over, this time on the boardwalk between the bathhouse and the bank. It was sure impressive, though, how cowed Buck and JD were in the face of a tracker at his limits.

"We let him down," Vin was saying to them, voice grating. "Me as much as the rest of ya."

"How?" Buck sounded like he knew but didn't want to be told. "What else we coulda done?"

"Any one of us told him we gave a shit about what happened?" Vin's glare took in Larabee as well, where he now stood at the foot of the steps. "Told him how we fuckin' can't stand what they did ta him? Anyone explain that none of it makes a jot of difference anyhow, to whatever the hell we are? 'Cause that's true, ain't it?"

"Course it's true," Buck said as if was ridiculous that anyone should ever doubt it.

"He don't know that."

"I ain't going," JD said desperately. "Vin, I decided. I ain't goin' ta go. And I spoke ta Ezra."

The intensity of Vin's look, even not trained on him, gave Chris prickles of apprehension. The questions kept coming, too. Vin was challenging. He was pushing for a reaction. "Oh, ya spoke ta him? And what he say? You're welcome, JD? Thanks for dropping by? Why the hell's it taken ya this long and could you come back and do it again when I'm not sick outa my mind? Damn but I don't see the point of all this shit."

They didn't need Vin tipping the scales. If Tanner didn't see the the point anymore, Chris knew he wouldn't either.

"You boys," he said, walking into the middle of them. "You're startin' to drive me fuckin' crazy, I swear to God! No wonder Ezra don't want to damn well wake up. Need you thinkin' straight, not squabblin like a pack of brats." He tapped the butt of his gun. "Need you sharp. Judge's headin' to town and he ain't of a mind to keep us on the payroll. There's a cattle-drive passing south, we're gonna be up to our goddamn ears in drunken cowpokes 'fore we know it. Guns missing out at the McMillan farm. Gotta fuckin' job to do."

The three of them looked at him in silence. He was relieved to see that they looked chastened. Vin had more of a mouthful ready to spew out but he was sitting on it. JD was getting that little jut to his chin like he was telling himself to get a goddamn grip. Buck almost had a gleam of humor in his eye.

"We ain't losin' Ezra," Chris growled at them finally. "Ain't losin' any of ya."

He sent Buck and JD on their way to the McMillans. Swung round on Vin.

"You reckon this whole goddamn mess is mine to sort out? ... well, I'm tellin you. Dragging you with me, Tanner, every step of the way."

Was half expecting a punch in the teeth, but Vin turned, swift and graceful, headed on up the street.

* * *

"You here to help? Or you here to complain?"

The question was spit out soon as Vin opened the door.

It was coming up to the evening of the fourth day, and still Link Chain was the only one decidedly dead. Vin felt harried and unbalanced, didn't need to be barked at. For a second he considered turning right around and walking out again, leaving Nathan to it. As much as he was getting used to bad temper, it tweaked his desire to ride for the hills something fierce. He supposed Nathan's snappish tone was due to worry. Lack of sleep would do it, too. And the fractious atmosphere that prevailed anywhere more than one of Judge Travis' regulators gathered.

There seemed reason enough to complain. The day hadn't gone well. Drunken cowpokes had made the previous evening a long and bruising one. The trail of the missing guns had gone cold. There hadn't been anyone to ride patrol but Vin. Josiah was stuck at the church, furious that Nathan refused to come when he was called, and JD was making himself so scarce you could never damn well find him when you wanted. Chris hadn't long told Buck he could move on out to Eagle Bend and stay there if he was going to be too bitching unhelpful to have around Four Corners. Buck hadn't gone. He was sitting on Mrs. Martha Taylor's porch in a big coat drinking coffee. Mr. Taylor had been buried four months and Buck had had his eye on the porch for weeks. It wasn't clear what Miss Lucille from Eagle Bend thought about this state of affairs.

"He's still breathing," Vin said to Nathan instead of answering the question. "Bracken. Still breathing strong. Taking water."

"Bleeding?"

"Hardly."

"Who's with him?"

"Josiah."

"Huh." Nathan busied himself at the table under the window, then turned around. "Well come in then if you're coming."

Vin shut the door behind him with a boot. He stood at the end of the bed. Eventually his silence made Nathan turn around again.

"I don't know."

Flat, honest, somewhat resigned. Sometimes it was a double-edged sword, being trusted so completely. Vin knew that well enough. He knew, too, that the sharp edges must be even sharper for Nathan Jackson. Having six white men, not to mention a goodly portion of the population, laying their lives into his care without question might make getting out of bed most days a source of unexpected pride. But Nathan sometimes speculated out loud that their experience of real doctors must have been something awful for them to rely on him so damn much. While his friends always commiserated with sincere sympathy when he lost a patient to complications beyond the control of any mortal man, Vin wasn't so sure what they'd think when he lost one of them.

Nathan didn't tend to butter his words. Even less when he was tired and thought certain people were being fools.

He swished something around in a pottery dish. "They knocked the guts outa him first time around, now he just ain't interested."

Vin pressed his lips together. He chafed the arm which lay neat and still along the top blanket.

"Chris told me to tell ya ... not to damn well mess us around, Ezra. All right? Now, ya feel this, dontcha?" He picked up the cool hand, squeezed until bones ground one against another under the bandaging. It must hurt, surely, such rough treatment of the burnt fingers. Enough to make him mad, make him wake up. Vin dug his nails into the flesh of Ezra's palm. There was no corresponding grip, no response to the vigorous touch.

Nathan tapped something against the side of the dish. Vin laid the hand down carefully, but didn't let go. He watched with a mixture of doubt and curiosity. There was a thin tube of glass held in Nathan's fingertips, about four inches in length, tapered at one end and attached to an oval of black rubber at the other.

It was something delicate and scientific. Something that made Vin feel a little restive.

"I guess you're going to tell me," he said.

"Plain water," Nathan answered, "warmed some. Need to get it down him. Won't be too easy. Figure it's like hand-rearing a bird that done fell out the nest."

"Fell out?" Vin wondered, "Or got kicked out?"

Nathan allowed the smallest of smiles at that. "I'll take my turn," he said. "And the rest of you damn well will too else he'll be gone by sun-up." That thought swept the smile off his face and he gave Vin a fierce look. "You reckon you can find 'em?"

"Well Buck's still not takin' callers. Not seen JD in a while. And it uh ... might not have been so smart to tell Josiah he wasn't fit to preach to folk no more."

Nathan brushed a thumb down his jaw. "He should just come and tell me to stick it in my ear. Now ain't the time. We've had harsh words, Vin, but now ain't the time." He carried the dish and glass dropper and stood by the bed, attention back on the patient. "See, he ain't gonna swallow any of it lessen you gentle it down."

Vin looked from Nathan to Ezra and back again. "_Gentle_ it down?"

Nathan held the dish and dropper towards him. His face plainly said that there weren't going to be any more explanations, it was up to Vin to get on with it. Vin did, with a will, but somehow his anxiety got the better of him every time. He gave it up after a while, but didn't like the look of Nathan so occupied himself instead in obliging the others to help out.

That wasn't an easy task. Before, some invisible thread would pull tight, tug at them when they were needed. It had never taken much to get them assembled when there was trouble. Now, though, in the murky brume of after, Vin had to scour town from one end to the other.

He was dangerously pissed at them after a while, but, whatever they were saying to each other, seemed they somehow still knew where their place was.

They all came, once they heard there was a fight to be had between now and dawn. It wasn't really a big surprise that Larabee didn't show an aptitude for the hand-rearing of abandoned avians though. The technique seemed to require a bucketful of the kind of patience Chris didn't own.

Buck and Josiah proved willing but clumsy - Nathan seemed to fear for the safety of the dropper, the dish and the bedcovers in their hands.

In fact, it was JD who was still sitting with Ezra in the sharp morning, long after both Vin and Nathan had succumbed to exhaustion. JD who said he wasn't going to give up so Ezra had better dang well get used to it, who discovered the lightest of touches against his throat might just persuade him to swallow. Who'd sit back and just wait with a quiet hand on his arm to see if Ezra's stomach decided to throw it all out. And then, when it did, start over again.

* * *

Finally, finally, word came from the church that Bracken was fading. And at last it seemed he was fading faster than Ezra.

"This I gotta see," Buck declared.

Vin didn't want any part of it, despite the flare of satisfaction he felt in his veins. He said he'd sit with Ezra as Nathan had been called to tend a visitor who'd decided to hurl themselves down the stairs of the hotel and had a broken collarbone to show for it.

"I'm comin' too," JD said.

"Now I don't know." Buck wasn't happy about that.

"I need to." JD had that look about him again and Chris was almost pleased to see it, pleased to see how strong it was, how Buck quailed before it. "Somethin' I need to do."

"Don't get ya hopes up," Chris cautioned. He half expected to find Bracken sitting up and laughing at them when they arrived, but all they found was the room dim as it had ever been, Josiah sitting quiet in the corner and a distinct change in the atmosphere. The look the preacher gave them convinced them that the end was definitely near. Josiah had his bible on his knees but he wasn't looking at it.

Chris came straight in and bent down next to the injured man.

"How'd you manage this, you lucky sonofabitch? Getting to draw your last fuckin' breaths in a house of God?"

Bracken was stretched on the cot breathing slow and shallow. He'd been the same way for a few hours now, ever since Nathan had tried, and failed, to dig the Derringer bullet out of him. He should have been long dead, even though the wound had been contained.

Chris could feel Buck at his shoulder, JD hovering a little further back.

Bracken showed his teeth. Then his eyes flickered about in the lamp-lit dark. His voice came out raspy and faint. "Where's my pretty?" he said. "You save my pretty?"

"It's all over, Bracken." Chris made sure he garnered the dying man's attention. "Time to pay your dues."

"Lincoln up and kill him?" Bracken sighed, licked his lips. "Good ole Link ... loyal as a puppy. Done killed him." His eyes stuttered closed.

"He ain't dead."

Bracken's eyelids quivered but didn't lift again. "Hah ... that so?" Another lick to the dry lips.

JD had taken his hat off in spite of himself. He threaded a way past Chris and Buck, went down on his haunches next to the cot.

"What you up to, kid?" Buck demanded, unsure.

JD reached out tentatively. He picked up one of Bracken's arms by the sleeve, then got a hold of the little finger and pulled at it. Bracken rolled his head on the pillow. As far as Chris and Buck could see, JD was working hard at a finger joint.

"What the hell," Buck said.

JD gave one more pull, then let go the sleeve, stood up with something in his hand. He leaned over Bracken.

"This doesn't belong to you," he said in a low, angry voice. "You thieving, murdering sonofabitch. I'm taking it back."

Then he held out his palm, showed them the ring sitting there and Buck let loose a hiss of disgust. Chris didn't say anything. He couldn't.

A token. A goddamn trophy. It tickled his gag reflex, made him want to tip the cot right over, kick the man in the belly. Josiah cleared his throat quietly.

Still a church. Goddamnit. Not supposed to be a place for so much hate.

Pushing it down, under the surface, Chris gave JD a little nod, motioned to him to go.

Bracken still didn't open his eyes but a crooked sort of smile had come to his lips. His voice came and went in snatches. "Hah," he said again.

"Why don't you just die? Just give it up, do us all a favor."

Guilt and disgust at his own words suffused Chris's voice, and he felt Buck's hand, strong and human, creep onto his back. Josiah shifted over in his corner but didn't say anything.

"Took him." Bracken smiled faintly. "Took him from right under ya noses." A long pause, the facial muscles twitching. "He's a pearl all right." The eyes struggled to open but failed. "Always be mine," he breathed on a sigh. The tongue appeared again, ready to lick. Then it stopped in place, the curve of the lips melting away. The jaw lolled and Bracken's head seemed to sink slowly into the pillow.

For half a minute, Chris and Buck just stared at him, unmoving. Even seeing the collapsed features, the stillness of the chest, wasn't enough to convince them Bracken wouldn't speak again. Chris held an unwilling hand over the man's nose and mouth, could feel nothing. Finally, he reached out two fingers, touched the tacky skin. He held them in place a long time, longer than he wanted to be in contact. In the end, he just nodded and took the fingers away.

Behind him, Buck let out a shaky breath. "Someone should tell Ezra," he said. His voice sounded muffled.

Chris didn't turn right around.

"You do it, Buck. You need to do it."

When the door closed, Chris took a few paces away from the cot. Josiah had risen. He spoke evenly but with an urgency that underlined the importance of his words.

"It will be a tidy task to get this man out of Ezra's head."

"He's gotta damn well decide to get his ass outa bed first." Chris turned to him. "I'll fetch who we need. Then we can clear this piece of trash from your church."

Josiah remained watching over the corpse while Chris went for the undertaker. Nathan would come, too, once Buck had told him the news. He'd come and verify the death. In the meantime, Josiah sat by the cot staring at the still face of Matthew Bracken.

Man had been part of a family once, Josiah told himself firmly. Been a son. Been a brother, far as they knew, middle one of three. Had maybe loved them, maybe been willing to sacrifice his life for them at one time. Then something made him cut himself loose, sent him spinning into the void. Nobody to mourn him here. Just a preacher at odds with his own God to say prayers for him.

Perhaps not prayers, Josiah amended. Perhaps just words.

Bracken was going to have power beyond the grave. Josiah wasn't sure what any of them were going to do to counter that.

He pulled the sheet up over the dead man's face.

* * *

"He's gone, hoss, ya hear me? Bracken's gone."

Buck spoke the words as soon as he'd come in the room, found both Vin and JD sitting there in silence.

"'Bout damn time," Vin said. He pushed to his feet, allowed Buck to come and take his place right next to the bed. They looked at each other a second, exchanged nods. Picking the cloth from the basin on the night-stand, Buck laid it down carefully across Ezra's forehead like it might crack if he pressed too hard.

"Gone for good, Ez," he said as if they were chatting in the saloon. "Vin and Josiah got his bleeding stopped, but you done for him, old hoss. Ain't gonna trouble nobody no more."

Buck peeled the cloth back.

"Link Chain too. Dead where ya dropped him, and a whole heap of folk can breathe easier tonight." He leaned a little closer again. "So. Now you can come on back. There's one or two things you'n'me need to discuss, some things ya need to know. Nathan's sewed you up good. Real nice stitching. You kinda leaked a mite more of the red stuff than we'd'a liked, but figure we can build ya up again."

Buck glanced over at the figure sitting on the other side of the bed. He placed the cloth back in the basin, wiped his hand down his pants to dry it off. Then he tidied the sheet under the pale arm laying nearest to him.

"JD's gonna sit for a while. Needs to talk."

As he passed behind JD on his way back out of the dark room, Buck bent his head to speak. "Now you just take it easy. Be good and still and don't go gettin' yourself worked up. He needs you strong, JD, not blubbin' over him. Got that?"

"I ain't gonna blub over him, Buck."

"Well you don't look like you're going to talk much sense either. I appreciate you gotta unburden ya goddamn soul, JD, just not real sure Ezra's up to it. You gotta talk quiet, call Nathan if he takes any worse."

A clunking sound came from the bed. The back of Ezra's unbroken hand had clipped the leg of the night-stand, was now hanging forlornly towards the floor.

"Wish that meant you were wakin' up," JD said.

"He's on his way." Buck was firm and convincing. "Just decided to take his own sweet time as usual." He moved to replace the wayward hand on the top of the sheet, gave it a very gentle pat. "See you later, pard."

* * *

Orrin Travis traveled back to Four Corners with an unsociable man named Fazackerly, a Pinkerton agent sent by Governor Hopewell.

They found the town subdued.

"You are fond of this place?" Fazackerly asked when they'd rolled to a halt and alighted in the early evening cool. It was one of the few things he'd said the whole journey.

"My son was." Travis was stiff and ill-humored. Had dust in the back of his throat and a storming headache from the relentless grind of the wheels. It never got any more pleasant, the journey through the desert. He felt the usual clash of joy and grief as he saw Mary approaching, wrapped in a shawl.

Fazackerly stood back and watched their embrace. Held out a hand when he was introduced.

"I need a room for one night only," he said, looking around.

"Will you come and take some iced tea, Mr Fazackerly? And something to eat? You're welcome to freshen up at my office."

He shook his head, hardly looking at her. "I will do my job at once, eat, rest and be on my way."

Travis sent a consoling glance in her direction. "Where's Mr. Larabee, Mary?"

She looked a little pale. Like events had been taking their toll. "Waiting for you in the jail."

"And the bodies?" Fazackerly asked.

"At the undertaker's. Mr. Larabee will escort you."

They found the jail occupied by Larabee, Tanner and a horse-thief behind bars. Chris was unwelcoming, tight-lipped, and Tanner slouched in a corner looking unshaven and faintly dangerous. They all walked to the undertakers', Chris's demeanor warning off any citizen foolhardy enough to consider trailing along behind.

Travis stood back and let Fazackerly examine the bodies. They were neatly laid out in pale, pine caskets, needed burying fast.

"I can confirm that this man is Lincoln Chain," Fazackerly said, sounding almost surprised. He turned with a wrinkle of his nose. "And this." He looked over the other corpse long and hard and Travis could see Larabee tensing up more and more as the seconds passed. Travis stole a look himself, caught a glimpse of a fine-boned face, boxy brows and long, limp hair streaked with silver. "Yes, by God. This is Matthew Bracken."

Fazackerly took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his face. He shook his head, then backed away.

Out in the fresh air they all breathed deeply.

"How did they meet their end?" the agent asked Chris, curious and more than a little suspicious.

"Chain hit his head when he was punched," Chris said, dislike seeping from every pore. "Bracken was shot in the gut."

"And the circumstances surrounding these events?"

"One of my lawmen was responsible for both deaths," Travis said.

"Yes. As I think you told me in the stage. This would be the injured Mr. Standish?"

Travis nodded. Larabee and Tanner were standing shoulder to shoulder. "How is he?"

"Link Chain stabbed him in the back," Chris said. "He's not doin' very well."

"And is Mr. Standish available for interview?"

Travis distinctly saw Larabee jab an elbow sharp into Vin Tanner's side. He replied in a calm and well-measured tone although his eyes were dark with suppressed fury.

"He's unconscious."

"That's a nuisance."

"We ain't best pleased," Chris said quietly.

"Bodies'll have to stay until Bracken's brother comes for 'em," Fazackerly said.

"His brother?" Tanner seemed completely thrown by that.

"Mr. William Bracken, of Lone Pine, California. He will be here within a day or two. Will take both caskets, all personal effects."

"His _brother_?" Tanner said again.

Travis was impatient. He was aware Larabee's group had knitted together, knew some vein of solidarity ran under the surface tensions, but it still surprised him sometimes that a man like Vin Tanner stayed around and took things to heart.

"Good," Chris said. "We don't want 'em here. We want them gone and forgotten." He looked away from Fazackerly and at the Judge. "You need to speak to me?"

"Tomorrow," Travis said. He didn't want to discuss the future of Four Corners with Agent Fazackerly's ears flapping. Man was officious and damn irritating. Would almost certainly have his own opinion of what should be done, and there were too many reasons Travis wanted to keep his stake in Four Corners long as he possibly could.

Not least the fact that his beloved son had loved the godforsaken place with every fiber of his being.

As Fazackerly strode away, apparently not needing or wanting to be hosted in any way at all, Travis let his eyes stray along the street. He could see none of the rest of the seven, which was unusual. Perhaps they were dismantling themselves of their own accord.

"So, tell me," he said as the three of them began a slow wander across to the saloon. "What hope for Mr. Standish and how did all this come about?"

Vin Tanner shook his head and began to pull away from them, quickening his pace.

"Kidnap, murder, rape," Chris said and Travis wished he hadn't asked. "It's a goddamn mess, Judge. Ezra is in a goddamn mess."

* * *

Ezra accepted that. He could tell he was in deep trouble.

Felt kind of pissed about it, to be honest. He wished everyone would just shut up. Leave him alone. Or else not. Or else hang on to him, wrap him up a sight more comfortable than he was, and make off with him somewhere safe. He wished they'd do one or other of those things.

Damn but he was clear that he didn't want to stay here in Savannah. There was no point, he couldn't stand the smell and the sound of the place anymore. And he knew he was in danger, that Matt Bracken was somewhere around. Sometimes he opened his eyes and Bracken was right there, staring at him, knowing he couldn't get away, those dark eyes boring into him with inhuman fascination.

"Been thrashing around and carrying on. Had a bad night."

There were always voices, tantalizingly familiar, yet strange and threatening.

"Ain't that typical? He ain't makin any sense at all."

Ezra would try to get away from them, let his boneless weight drag him into the depths. Hands invariably hauled him back. Else, he'd go the other way. Endeavor in the spirit of cooperation to open his eyes and communicate, but someone would always draw a soft hand across his forehead. It wasn't Maude, because Maude didn't do that. Whoever it was, he'd be hushed, soothed, driven back into the dark when all he wanted was to find the light.

"What's he talkin' about? You know?"

"I don't want to know."

"What did you do, Ezra? What the hell did you _do_?"

Ezra despaired.

Seemed he just couldn't do right far as these prating mercenaries were concerned.

Not ever.


	13. Chapter 13

_The friend within the man is that part of him which belongs to you and opens to you a door which never, perhaps, is opened to another. Such a friend is true, and all he says is true; and he loves you even if he hates you in other mansions of his heart_. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

* * *

William Bracken was the older brother, there was no doubt.

He arrived in Four Corners on the busiest day of the week driving a smart wagon, a smart wife sitting by his side. He was tall, slender, good-looking and wore his shining gray hair long.

Chris and Vin watched him go past, his eyes trained studiously front, not looking around the town. The wagon was driven carefully, negotiating the bustle and chaos of market day, all the way up to the Hotel where it stopped.

Nobody needed to tell them who they'd just seen.

"He did somethin'," Vin decided. "Posed on that goddamn train. Told some stories."

"Reckon?" Chris had been inclined to think that the authorities had been plain idiotic. Never considered the possibility that someone clever had set them up.

"Well sure looks like his brother, don't he? Matt was headed to California when Josiah and I lost the trail."

"I'm going to stick with him," Chris said. "Make sure he doesn't do anything except collect what's his and leave. And," he added, glancing along the street to the saloon, "you're going to make sure none of the boys takes the chance to mouth off."

"What makes you think I'm not going to mouth off?"

"Got your skinny ass in my sights, Tanner."

"There's a surprise." Vin's response was dry, but content. He nudged Chris's elbow. "You know what else, don't you?"

"What else?"

"Ezra's on the move."

"Damnit," Chris said. "I mean, hell, that's good news. But he ain't comin' down out here, he ain't comin' down and walkin' slap bang into Matt Bracken's goddamn dead ringer of a brother."

Vin smiled. "Buck's got it covered," he said. "Sent JD to keep him occupied."

Chris considered. "Right." He rubbed his chin. "This mean we're working together again?"

"Makin' a start." Vin stepped on to the street and began to wind his way through the milling townspeople and traders towards the saloon.

Slowly, curious but still reluctant, Chris walked the other way, eyes on the couple still standing next to the wagon, talking to someone who'd evidently come to help out with bags and directions. On the corner by the telegraph office he came to a stop, couldn't quite bring himself to go any further. He didn't want to speak to Bracken, didn't want to look into his eyes. Didn't like the thought that the man was part of some sick conspiracy. Or that he had some shared knowledge of events Chris wished had died with Matt Bracken and Link Chain.

Someone touched him lightly on the back of the shoulder.

It was lucky, Chris thought, that the touch was so recognizably female. Else he might have reacted differently. There were more than a few downsides to always being on the alert for trouble.

"Mary," he acknowledged as he turned, gun hand tingling.

Mrs. Travis had her inky work-apron on. Her hair was a little loose, her face warm.

"Was that Bracken's brother?"

"No comment."

Her faintly anxious look changed into a half-pout. "I wouldn't presume to ask you to. I'm not intending to waste newsprint."

He smirked at her. "Well good." He remained where he was, looking at the wagon.

"In any case," Mary went on, "Just because they're related doesn't mean he's as evil."

"He won't get the chance to be much of anything." Chris watched Bracken and his wife move away towards the entrance of the hotel, pressing some money into the hands of the man who stood at the head of the horse, ready to take the wagon. Then he glanced back at Mary. "Judge ready to pronounce?"

She hesitated. He knew she didn't like playing go-between, didn't like that her family and the regulators were not one and the same thing. "Plenty of people will speak for you," she said eventually and he smiled. Mary was winding herself up to remind him he shouldn't give in without a fight. He already felt that, but along with his lack of optimism was a pragmatism that Mary Travis sometimes didn't care to engage with.

"And plenty won't," Chris responded to her. He did have a thought that perhaps he tended to the miserable with Mary because he enjoyed her attempts to cheer him.

"I don't think we're ready for a Deputy Connor."

"We killed twelve men between us, Mary. It's one kind of justice. Ain't necessarily the best kind. But we didn't do so well on the best kind."

"I don't believe you feel bad for one moment that Camino and Bracken's gang have been ... eliminated."

"Could have stood Matt Bracken facing due process."

"I think you're hard on yourself, Mr. Larabee."

"And I think I need to be. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go escort our visitor to the undertaker's."

He heard her shoes clicking a retreat on the wooden boards behind him as he moved away. Coming through the doors of the Hotel, he could see Bracken standing by the clerk's desk, hand on his wife's back. Chris's instinct, which he had to squash, was to draw his gun before he spoke. The clerk had looked over as he entered and seemed uneasy. That uneasiness caused Bracken to turn around. His hand fell from the small of his wife's back. She turned too and they both stared at Chris.

"Yes? You need to speak to me?"

Shit. Same face. Same eyes. Same goddamn voice. A very shiny sidegun was visible in what looked like a brand-new buscadero gunbelt.

"This is Mr. Larabee," the clerk said faintly.

Chris expected the twinkling, childlike grin of Matt Bracken to appear, but it seemed his brother didn't find the same things amusing.

"Oh," Bracken said. "The law."

"I think Mr. Larabee's come to take you to the ... to see the ... "

"To see my dead brother."

It gave Chris a heady sensation to hear the man say those words.

"They were talking about the lawmen of Four Corners in Ridge City," Bracken said. "You're starting to get quite a reputation."

Mrs. Bracken was staring with open hostility. He could see that she thought he was responsible for the death of a close family member, and that that was something indefensible. The wrongness of Matt Bracken's death being indefensible sent the hair on the back of Chris's neck to attention.

"One of your gunslinging heroes murdered Mattie, Larabee. I know all about it. Know his name too. Know he's here. Where is he - hiding out?"

"Ya brother's lying dead and cold in a box," Chris said calmly. "Instead of getting comfortable, I suggest you go collect him, leave town and don't come back."

"You think you can forget about it now? Think we're just going to walk away?"

"No reason not to. It's over. For you, and your family."

_And mine_. Kept that thought close to his chest. Didn't want to give Fate the chance to sink its goddamn teeth in.

"Where is he?" Bracken repeated. "I want to see him."

He wasn't talking about his brother.

Chris knew the Hotel clerk had paled up, was clutching the edge of his desk.

"It's not far. They took the lid off this morning but you best take something to cover your nose." Mrs. Bracken shuddered and he smiled at her and then turned his attention back to her husband. "All my men are in town," he said. "You won't see them 'less you go looking for 'em. And I don't think you want to do that."

A muscle jumped above one of William Bracken's shiny dark eyes.

"Take me to my brother," he said.

Chris could tell from his expression that he was a lot less like Mattie than he appeared.

He was a bastard. But he wasn't insane.

* * *

JD let Buck give him a little speech before he went to find Ezra. It didn't make him as grumpy as he thought it might. They actually grinned at each other when Buck wound it up.

"I was going anyhow," JD said.

"Know you were, kid."

"And I know I gotta keep him busy, stop him coming down."

"I know you know, kid."

JD found Ezra was mobile.

He was sitting on the side of the bed, stockinged feet on the floor. JD was not at all sure he was supposed to be on the move but the warning look he received as he let himself in was enough to keep him quiet on the subject. Ezra had on his pinstripe pants and a white shirt, not yet fastened. Wrapping was visible through the cotton and the suspenders hung loose.

"I'm not stayin' long," JD said. "Nathan dint want me coming up at all. Said you needed your rest."

For a day or two after Matt Bracken breathed his last, Ezra had been gripped by a strong fever. He'd floated, voluble and semi-conscious, halfway between Savannah and the mill. The fever was hard to manage, ebbed and peaked, wouldn't quite break. It felt like it'd taken too damn long for him to start talking an approximation of sense again. When he did throw it off, within a few hours he'd been sitting up being spoon-fed with a compliance that suggested he wanted recuperation sooner rather than later. Now it was really only his propensity to look like a breeze might blow him over that continued to worry Nathan. That and the hands.

"Of all the things you had to go and mess up," he'd said.

Ezra was surprisingly sanguine about it. Seemed survival was the main thing on his mind. Somehow he'd kept a hold of what he'd thought soon as the Derringer fired, what he'd felt soon as he'd seen Buck and Chris arrive behind the church.

That there were six very good reasons for him to get through all of this.

The broken hand was totally useless, would be for a while. He refused to allow Nathan to immobilize him completely by protecting the busted limb in a sling, but the healer figured it was only a matter of time before he succumbed. The other one was still bound up, too, but Ezra was busy with it. All the damn time.

"Well here you are," he said, inviting JD to sit with an inelegant wave of one of his stiff, white paws.

"Jist long enough for two things, Ezra." JD felt his voice start to fade almost as soon as he began. He didn't sit, felt too jumpy all of a sudden. "First, now you ain't fevered, I need to thank ya properly. For what ya did. Shoulda done it ... sooner." He swallowed a few times, started again. "It's just that what you ... you ... thank you."

A small crease appeared between Ezra's eyes and then smoothed out. He nodded. "You're welcome. And the second thing?"

JD poked in his breast pocket, picked the little gold ring from its far corner and held it towards Ezra in his palm. He was rather shocked to see not the slightest flicker of pleasure on the poker face.

"I uh ... took it back." JD nodded encouragingly. "From Matt Bracken. Here."

Ezra didn't move a muscle. "I'm obliged. Please dispose of it somewhere appropriate."

"Dispose of it?" JD gaped at him. "You don't want it?"

"Believe me when I say I never wish to see that thing again. I never wish to touch it again."

"But, Ezra, you ... the snowstorm and the full house ... that dang stupid story you tell that I don't believe anyhow but it's ... but you love this goddamn thing."

Ezra looked at it briefly, swung his gaze away. Then he looked back at JD.

"He had that on his finger?"

JD closed his hand around it, took it out of sight. "Day he escaped, he showed it ta me but I dint say anything, I just wanted to get it back for ya."

"Like I say, I'm obliged."

"Well d'ya want me to keep it safe? I could do that, and then when you -"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard ya, Ezra. Guess I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand, just do as I ask."

"Well ... sure." JD stuffed the damn ring in his back pocket, still a little puzzled. Sentimental possessions were important to him and it was Buck who'd pointed out that, whatever tale Ezra span, it was perfectly possible the little gold ring was some kind of heirloom he maybe couldn't bring himself to acknowledge as such. Either way - gift or ill-gotten gain - JD had always believed Ezra prized it highly.

It was tainted, though. JD could appreciate that.

"Tell me." Ezra was changing the subject. He'd stood carefully, gone over to the window and was looking out. His movement was cautious, just as it had been straight after the mill, but there was something indisputably Ezra about his bearing that had been missing before. "You're not still thinking of leaving?"

"I can't," JD said. "I owe you, Ezra."

"You don't." Ezra turned around, looked into his eyes. JD remembered that he could become older and wiser just as effectively as Buck or Chris when he put his mind to it. "Please be told. There is nothing owed. No debt to be paid."

"But oh _God,_" JD said, not able to help himself. "That day ... when they dragged you off and I saw what they were gunna do and then we didn't help you ..."

"Must have been very unpleasant. I really do not wish ... it was just another way to do what we all do."

"Not sure I coulda -"

"It doesn't matter."

"Given ya one helluva hard time though, not speakin' up. And Buck and Josiah ..."

A smile quirked Ezra's lips. "Mistah Wilmington and Mistah Sanchez. Yes. I really must find the time to go and talk to them."

"Not right now though," JD said quickly.

Ezra smiled some more. "It's all right. I know who's about town. Don't worry, I don't intend to give you gentlemen anything more to worry about than you already have." He rubbed his back gingerly. Eyed the bed. "Perhaps you could inform me when the coast is clear?"

"Well all right. If you maybe lie down. Nathan'll give me hell if I let you overdo it."

"I don't wish to trouble anyone," Ezra said. "Really, I don't. Mr. Jackson deserves nothin' but peace and quiet."

The words were so heartfelt, JD felt a lump lift from his own heart. Almost made his head spin.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. William Bracken of Lone Pine, California, dressed in black, drove Matthew Bracken and his childhood friend Lincoln Chain out of Four Corners the next morning.

Even Ezra came down at the last second to see them out of sight, stood with his eyes narrowed, watching the wagon trace and the dust, Buck real close at his elbow.

"He look like him?"

"Jus' like him."

Ezra did one of his neck gestures, went to sit down.

Buck felt someone's hand on his back, caught someone else's eye as they all melted away to do other things. They knew it was the time, and Buck knew it too. He remained standing where he was for a while.

Ezra had found a chair with its back against a wall, facing the opposite way up the street from the way the Brackens had left. There was some cool sun on his face and he had his feet resting on that same upturned pail as before, crossed at the ankle, silver flask clasped in his lap. Still god-awful pale and sickly-looking, but awake, looking alert. He had the beige jacket round his shoulders but he was wearing navy-blue tailoring under that. Had a smart vest on too. Although no necktie.

"Ezra," Buck said, moving into his view.

Ezra closed one eye, clasped the flask a little more tightly. He knew it was time, too. "Buck."

"How you feelin'?"

"Perfectly fine, Mr. Wilmington."

"Well good."

After a while, Ezra shifted in his seat, apparently looking for a more comfortable position. He lifted his feet off the pail, set them on the knotty boards.

"You ... wantin' something in particulah?"

Buck leaned his backside against the rail behind, supported himself with one arm.

"Jist came to see if ... well, if you and me ... well, to see if you'n'me are going to be ... you know, all right."

"All right?"

Buck made a face. "Dang it, Ezra. We ain't hardly spoke two words since ... well, I guess I been speakin to you, but you were sort out of your head, didn't really have much to say f'yaself."

"As I recall, now I am .. uh, back in mah head, there is not much more to say."

"You're wrong there, hoss. Plain, ass-backwards wrong."

Ezra thinned his lips, jammed the flask between his thighs and began unscrewing the lid clumsily with one hand. "The fact of the matter is, I really don't care to go all over this business, Buck, not with anyone. It's all past and done."

"I know that. I know it don't do no good to rake it up. It's only that I want you to know. To uh ... know."

"Knowledge can be burdensome at the best of times." Ezra took a hasty slug, wiped the neck of the flask on his sleeve. He looked like he was about to get to his feet.

"Now don't run off, dang it." Buck frowned at him. "Let me say my piece. See, I'm not sure I could ever explain how I ... feel about whatcha did and what they did and ... how fuckin' glad I was that it was you and not JD and damnit, Ezra, I'm sorry for that." He shut his eyes for a moment, hung his head. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't."

"No, hoss, I have to. See, I know that kinda thinkin's all back to front, that it ain't fair. But seems ta me, you were doin' ya goddamn job, it just had ta happen that way."

Ezra nodded, tightly. Very tightly.

"So, now listen, I thought about it and thought about it and it always comes back ta the same thing." Buck slid a boot along the wood, poked at Ezra's foot a couple of times. "Proud to ride with you and all that, Ezra."

Ezra relaxed back into his chair slightly. He cleared his throat. "Likewise. "

"So if you get to feelin' bad, havin' those dreams and ... well, you just come and find ole Buck." Buck knew, he just _knew _the whole goddamn nightmare, every last moment, was plastered all over Ezra's nights like a badly painted fence. Had seen the way he shrank from a stranger's inadvertent touch.

Ezra flicked invisible lint off the knees of his pants. "And what will ole Buck do, pray?"

"Heck, I don't goddamn know. Tell y'a funny story." Buck pinched his moustache between thumb and forefinger, thinking hard. "Buy y'a drink. But you really shouldn't be making a habit of this, awright? This self-sacrificing shit. Don't suit you. Next time we'll just take our goddamn chances."

"Next time?"

"You know what I mean."

"Riding to the rescue was your idea, ah believe?"

"Dint notice you tryin' to stop me."

"Huh."

"I'm going to go and get me a beer," Buck said.

"Really."

"Yup." Buck nodded. "And then I'm going to come and drink it right here." He looked hopeful. "Is that all right with you?"

"It's not unpleasant here in the sunshine," Ezra said. "Please. Be mah guest."

* * *

It became cooler and cooler as the day went on. Vin said Nathan and Buck'd be freezing their butts off on patrol and they should dress accordingly. He, Chris and JD went out to Chris's place to do some winter jobs. Larabee seemed sure, for today anyhow, that he didn't want the whole thing falling down when the bad weather came.

Ezra couldn't ride with his broken hand, although he'd already demonstrated the other one was on the mend when he drew the Remington on the foreman from the cattle-drive who thought he wanted Inez' cousin Juanita to sit on his lap. He hadn't so much as looked at the Derringer since he'd killed Bracken with it. Vin had cleaned it out for him best he could but there were still some tiny threads of the dead man's clothing soldered into the mechanism.

Josiah spent most of the day in the church. When it wasn't warm enough to go and meditate out in the middle of nowhere, he preferred to do it here. After working and reading for hours, he'd sat himself down in the front pew. Unless anything untoward happened in town, there was dinner and a night patrol to think about.

So he'd spent some time thinking about dinner, some time asleep. It could not truthfully be said that he'd spent any time at all with his thoughts much higher than his belly. When he heard the door open and someone enter the church, he didn't move. What Josiah could feel from the slight vibration that filtered through the interior was that this was friend and not foe.

No-one spoke. Slow, light footsteps advanced up the aisle.

The visitor, whoever it was, moved quietly into a seat behind him and Josiah heard the sound of something being laid on the bench. A hat, most probably.

This had happened before. And Josiah knew it was the same person as before. The same person entering the unfamiliar confines of a holy place in a not-very-hopeful search for help. He felt a catch in his throat. Certainly he had not deserved many plaudits for helpfulness that last time.

When the visitor spoke, it was in that smooth, soft-accented tone so characteristic of the man. Confidence shot through with doubt. And softer than usual. Weary.

_Too soon out of bed._

"Ah maybe shouldn't have come."

Josiah made a swift resolution that, too soon out of bed or no, he was going to try and keep Ezra in the church as long as possible.

"You have as much right in here as anyone."

A quiet laugh. "That can't be. I committed sacrilege last time."

"You are forgiven for that, brother. And in any case, if you recall, last time you were losing lifeblood faster than we could stem it. Last time you were here, you had us a mite concerned."

"Yes. Ah suppose I did." Josiah heard Ezra's feet shift on the floor. "But, however lacking in some areas of instruction, I was certainly never taught to consume liquor in church, nor to damage property. That was ungentlemanly behavior of which I am ashamed. Ah believe I may have insulted you too."

"You did. And there was an element of truth in what you said."

A pause of ten doubtful seconds. "Well then."

Josiah allowed himself a small smile. "Well then."

"That's all. I merely wished to ... apologize."

"No, Ezra. You didn't. I know you. You came for a far more important reason than that, and this time you won't be turned away. You damn well sit where you are and talk. I'll listen."

The pause this time was surprised, stunned even. Josiah braced himself slightly on his seat, ready to leap up and prevent Ezra bolting. There was no sound of movement from behind, however.

Eventually, Ezra said in a measured voice, "Due to my having said far too much while in no state to place a kerb on mah tongue, I do believe some of mah history is now common knowledge."

Equally measured, but as encouraging as he could muster, Josiah replied quietly, "You talked about Savannah when you were sick. About a friend. About some men. Some money."

He heard an irritated tsk-ing. Then a snap of the tongue that didn't fool him for one moment.

"There was a con, you may not be surprised to learn."

Josiah just nodded his head.

"One that involved mah charming the socks off whomever we played." Ezra paused again, waiting for another nod. "Savannah was maybe the second occasion we pulled it. Mother thought there was no point unless I was of an age to be ... convincing."

_Lord preserve us._

"Go on."

"I liked Savannah."

"Never went there."

"I mean, I liked it because I'd made a friend. He was unlucky enough to be in my company the evening the marks came for recompense. But yes ... undoubtedly mah own fault that we were in that situation and really ... there was nothing else to be done. I had no choice but to volunteer. I suppose you wouldn't agree. I suppose I committed a terrible sin."

Josiah sat quiet. He was full of doubt all of a sudden. About what he'd heard, about what he'd understood.

"What do you mean, volunteer?"

"I would really rather not spell it out."

"What do you mean, volunteer?" Josiah repeated in a harder voice. "Did you offer them something for money?"

He heard a book falling to the ground with a dull thud.

"Go to hell," Ezra said, and began to move swiftly out of the pew.

"No!" Josiah burst out. "No!" He leapt to his feet and took a few rapid steps after him, arrested the flight with one grabbing arm, spinning Ezra to face him. Just like before. Exactly as before. "Tell me you didn't. Tell me the money wasn't for that. Tell me what happened!"

Ezra broke out of the hold, shoved at him using his forearms.

"You want to know? Really? Are you ready for mah confession?"

"This is the place. And maybe now is the time."

Ezra's pale face had begun to color up and he was getting that strung-out, cornered look about him.

Josiah had heard Ezra on countless occasions sounding utterly sincere when he wasn't sincere in the slightest. The man was a skillful thespian, positively delighted in the weave of imaginative detail through a tissue of lies.

"Three men, nowhere to run." There was the faintest of cracks in the voice, bleeding the kind of genuine emotion that made Josiah's heart shudder in his chest. "They'd come for the money I'd ... extorted. Each one of those three was stronger than both of us put together. They had that boy ... that child ... on the ... he was my friend, Josiah, and I may have been a callow youth with no moral certainty or backbone, but it was unconscionable to me that he should be abused. So I told them I was good, that I knew what they wanted. I told them to take me. You understand? I told them ... I _begged_ them ... to fuck me instead."

Josiah felt his eyes burning.

"So they did. Said I was a sinner, that I'd go to hell for begging. Called me a whore. Threw money at me." Ezra's voice had become steadily more matter-of-fact as he laid his memories out like so many ugly insects pinned to a card. "Didn't pick it up. Can you believe that? Must be about the only time in mah life I have willingly looked a gift-horse in the mouth." His chin jutted. "There has been more than one occasion, Mr. Sanchez, when schemes have called for me to be ... accommodating. I have come close, very close, since then. I have been a cheat and a liar all mah life, but whatever you and the late Mr. Bracken may have thought, I have never whored for money. Goddamn your eyes, suh, for assumin' it. Goddamn them."

"No," said Josiah. Sadness sloughed through him, a stinging guilt in its wake that left him feeling old as time. His hand came up to touch the side of Ezra's face. It was an instinctive move, but he heard the instant hitching of breath and froze.

Ezra moved back carefully rather than shrinking away as he clearly wanted, cleared his throat. When he spoke, he sounded calm, more like himself. Or, to be strictly accurate, more like the self that wasn't himself. Josiah clenched his fingers lightly into his fist as he withdrew them.

"You have no idea how I regret having revealed mahself. And how much ... how very much I regret what our other associates think." Ezra seemed tired. He gave his broken hand a frustrated look, dropped it to his side. "It can seem an easy road to take, ah suppose."

There was a short silence before Josiah spoke again.

"My first flock was destroyed," he said, "by the temptation of greed and young men who turned away from families that loved them." A look came over Ezra's face that suggested he thought he was about to be lectured but Josiah shook his head no. "They were not obliged by poverty or violence," he went on. "They chose to sell themselves." The preacher's eyes closed. The regret and guilt was still fierce. His anger with them still choking. "And they were impossible to save. God knows, I tried. I really, really tried."

"A vale of tears," Ezra said as if he meant it. "But you know ... one must come to an accommodation with past events. Even recent ones. In fact, I have convinced mahself it was merely a combination of bad luck and cheekbones that led to the uh ... circumstances at ... "

Josiah blinked open his eyes, frowned. Despite the months of their association, it was still a surprise when Ezra undercut a conversation so unexpectedly. "Did you say cheekbones?"

"A jest of Mother's."

"Maude is a remarkable woman," Josiah said gravely, deciding to play along although his heart was still thundering, "but dear Lord I believe her sense of humor leaves something to be desired."

"You may be right."

An _accommodation_. Josiah wondered if there might not be some vein of philosophy behind the facade that he could usefully tap into for the benefit of the congregation. "This friend of yours ... what happened to him?"

"He rather sensibly ran away," said Ezra. "When I saw him again, he didn't want to ... uh know me."

Josiah winced. "Sonofabitch."

Ezra shrugged. "It was a transitory relationship. Which reminds me ... you haven't claimed any filial connection from me lately, Josiah. Am I to understand that our imaginary family ties are now severed?"

"Figure you don't want it and I don't deserve it."

"Well," Ezra said. "Those kinds of relationships can be volatile I hear. Could be the other way around in no time at all."

Josiah felt the creeping edges of amusement ease his heart. "I have known many kinds of sin, have committed some myself. What you did in Savannah, what you did for JD .. well, whatever anyone says, Ezra ... hell whatever_ I_ have said, it was very far from being a sin."

"Ah see. And can your ... uh God attest to that?"

Josiah pursed his lips. "I'm working on it." He motioned to the bench next to him. "So sit down would you, Ezra? Maybe we can discuss it with Him."

Ezra hesitated. "I think I would really rather be in mah own place of worship, Josiah. If you don't mind." A hopeful look crossed his face. "But ... can I maybe count on your presence over the way some time soon?"

"Yes," Josiah said. "Yes, you can definitely count on it."


	14. Chapter 14

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three_ ~Anon

* * *

Nothing was quite like it had been before.

Some things were better, some were worse. And all was impermanent and unknown. Chris didn't mind too much, long as there was less space between them for things to get wedged.

JD had settled right down. Chris suspected he might stay in Four Corners being a damn fine Sheriff long after the rest of them had gotten themselves killed or otherwise occupied. He could see Nathan here as well, doing what he did best, whether some proper doctor came and set up across the street or not. Josiah, too. He hadn't put so much of his heart and soul into that goddamn church just to up and leave it now.

With Buck, you never knew. Eagle Bend wasn't calling him anymore, and neither, seemingly, was Mrs. Taylor's porch. Someone else probably was, though. With Buck, you just never knew.

Vin was here as much as Vin was anywhere. Attached to his wagon and yet not giving a damn. Being about as reliable as anyone could be who might up and disappear over the horizon at any moment. He'd bought himself a fancy new double-rigged saddle. It was still hanging on the wall.

There might have been some apologies owing here and there. Seemed like they were all big enough to hang on until they came, though.

Chris still couldn't decide about the damn farm. Still thought to hell with it more often than not and sat in the saloon until late with Ezra, drinking far too much, both of them. Ezra was getting kind of special at it, though. Whoever was on night-watch made a point of keeping a lookout. They'd find him wandering around town in the early hours with his goddamn useless mess of a hand, swallowing whiskey as fast as he could after some visitation from Matt Bracken and who knew what the hell-all else.

"Whatcha dreamin', pard? Somethin' you can tell us?" That was what Vin would ask, supposing they could find him before he passed out.

He'd tell them, too, if the whiskey had loosened his tongue sufficiently without having robbed him of the ability to speak.

It wasn't easy listening. But if they were going to be any damn help to him at all, they guessed they needed to know what lay in wait once he'd left them sitting uneasily around the saloon table every night while he staggered his way up the stairs and shut the door against them.

There were themes, reminded Chris of the downright terrifying and disturbing scenes that had peppered his own sleep in the wake of the fire. Illogical happenings. People doing things they wouldn't do. For a start, Ezra said he never knew what possessed him to enter the pitchy-black of the church anyhow. Or why Matt Bracken would be waiting for him in there of all places. He just knew that he'd be abject and on his knees in a second.

"Listen, Ezra, I'm sorry, you don't hafta ..."

But he did have to. Chris understood that.

Half past three in the goddamn morning and they were sitting about in the dark and freezing cold of the Livery with Ezra babbling on about how they might not have been there quite in time, but that they'd saved his sorry ass between them and he was damn grateful.

"He's going to be all right," Chris said. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

"Yup," Vin agreed, extending a hand, squeezing the back of Ezra's neck. It was a move none of them would have contemplated even before Sharpeville. Ezra seemed to accept it, didn't shrink away when Vin left the hand there, warm and easy. Allowed himself to be drawn back from the dark. Maybe that was how Chris knew.

He angled a stare at the bottle cradled in the crook of an elbow. Shirtsleeves rolled up, collar crinkled, vest buttons askew. Still one heck of a lot of work to be done.

"Think you oughta take it easy with this stuff now though. It's not doin' you any good."

"Dunno where mah flask went," Ezra said.

"Iffen ya having trouble sleepin," Vin suggested, "maybe Nathan can give you something? Or -" seeing the disgust forming on Ezra's face, "maybe not."

Chris had already decided something about that. Far as he was concerned, he was going to post someone on the goddamn floor by the bed if necessary. They weren't going to be arriving too damn late anymore.

He reached over and tugged at the nearly-empty bottle. Ezra wouldn't let go at first and Chris was almost glad about that. They had a brief scuffle, which Chris won. "Bob Watson's got no damn business givin' you liquor. And you've got no business drowning in it."

Ezra sighed and put his hand over his face. "Ah ... don't feel so very good."

"Shit, how many weeks you bin drinking ya goddamn breakfast, lunch and dinner? You throwing up's getting to be part of the routine, Ez. Like Buck falling down steps, or Vin getting stepped on by his goddamn horse." Chris flung the bottle over into a pile of straw. Yosemite wouldn't appreciate it but that was too bad.

"No, really." Ezra bent himself in half. "Not so very good at all."

"You air ya goddamn paunch all over my boots, pard, I won't be accountable for my actions." Vin grinned, snaked his hand down the bony back, moved his feet out of the way just in time. "Damn," he said.

"Burns like hellfire comin' up," Ezra puffed.

It was all working itself out.

* * *

"He going to be any use to you?"

It had to be the Judge who asked the question. Travis was finally on his way out of town again after a long and thoughtful stay. His intention had been to depart once the Brackens had left, but somehow he'd felt some compulsion to remain longer and he'd been a quiet presence in the background for some two weeks now.

Some of the antics Buck and JD had gotten up to hadn't impressed him much. He'd had some long, quiet talks in private with Vin Tanner and he hadn't missed a single word Josiah had uttered from his pulpit. Once he took a turn out of town to look over Chris's place, and he admitted that he found the lack of a trained doctor in the town troubling. Clearly, though, as had been the case right from the beginning, it was Ezra's place in the whole set-up that concerned him most of all.

Chris, walking him to the stage, slid his eyes across the street.

The whole damn bunch of them were lounging about in the dusty sunshine. Like they were waiting to play hooky once the boss had turned his back.

Larabee defended them to the best of his ability.

"Tanner's still got a price on his head," he admitted. "Never know when the preacher's going to go off the rails. Your Sheriff needs to lose a little of his green I guess. Nathan Jackson's a damn fine healer, but he ain't a lawman. And we ain't never been able to rely on Buck." A slow smile stretched his lips. "Reckon Ezra's about as much use as any of 'em."

"Loyalty is an important quality," the Judge said. "There is always the possibility of being loyal to a fault, however."

It was the only kind Chris knew.

"Well, quite a few folk put in a good word for you round here." Travis was wry. "And I put in a good word for you with Governor Hopewell. He left it up to me."

The Judge gazed across the street, too. "You boys carry on making this town a safe place to call home. I'll carry on worrying about it."

"Seems a fair division of labor."

Travis nodded. He kissed Mary and left them again.

Chris watched the stage pull away but didn't stay standing next to a damp-eyed Mary as it rolled out of sight. His boys were waiting to be rounded up into the saloon like a goddamn herd of sheep and he wouldn't disappoint them.

There was hardly a soul in there this time of day. Ollie saw them coming and had already placed a bottle of Highland Pure and seven glasses in the middle of the table up on the platform. Chris acknowledged this generosity and foresight with a nod as he stumped up the steps and pulled out a chair. The others settled down around him, worryingly expectant.

Once again they were looking to him for the right words. Him, the man who didn't care so very much for words.

Buck filled the glasses carefully.

"Boys," Chris said when it was done, although he knew he already had their attention. He paused then, not able to think. Glancing up he caught Vin's eye, saw the spark.

"Man could expire from desperation," Ezra observed, jiggling his glass optimistically. He swung it quickly out of range as Buck's free hand grabbed for it, dug him in the ribs with an elbow.

"You're a dang overgrown baby," JD announced, although it wasn't clear who he meant.

"Hush." Josiah's voice was admonishing, but quiet.

Nathan was grinning. Actually grinning, from ear to ear.

What in the hell would they have done without Nathan?

Chris looked over at Ezra, neat and groomed and ephemeral somehow, like the goddamn ghost of the fine gentleman he aspired to. That he was sitting there at all was some kind of miracle. Then again, there was something infuriating and miraculous about every last one of them.

Almost imperceptibly Chris raised his glass. "To trails ahead."

They all stared at him.

Irritated, he tried again. "Health and good fortune?"

Clearly not damn well acceptable.

"You c'n do better than that, cowboy," Vin murmured, well amused.

"Oh to hell with it," Chris groused.

Didn't want anymore of this. Worrying and fighting and never giving you any peace. _Bitching well bite you soon as look at you._

"Here's to us and those like us," Josiah said firmly.

"Damn few," Buck echoed, "And they're probably dead."

"_Home._"

Chris was easy loud enough to drown them out.

Somehow, it sounded about right. They'd made it, after all. Not exactly safe, but near as damnit.

There was no chink of glass on glass. Just a pleasing quiet and seven shots tipped down in concert.

Larabee was quick. To a general blast of laughter around the table he managed to bat Ezra's reaching hand from the bottle.

"Nah ah ah."

Buck crashed both his hands on the table so hard it rocked. "Face it, Ezra. Dang miserable cuss is just a faster draw."

"That I concede." Ezra plucked at his vest pocket with the better of his hands. It shook so hard he had to make a second pass. Chris found himself willing it to find its target. He saw the looks that passed between the others, sensed their apprehension. A shadow of anxiety drifted over Ezra's features but he carried right on. "However, my friends, by a stroke of good fortune, Mr. Larabee is nothin' but a hapless fumblefingers in my arena."

Chris smiled his second smile of the day, one that he wasn't expecting. He suddenly felt nothing but bone-deep satisfaction.

Maybe, although it looked near impossible, although it looked all wrong and there were no instructions, this puzzle of an outfit would about fit together. Long as he wasn't careless enough to lose any of the pieces, it'd make up something good.

_Damn. Don't rely on me so much, boys. Not sure I'm anywhere near up to that._

Ezra seemed sure. He sucked in a sharp breath, went for a dimple and just about made it. There was a ripple of relaxation. None of them had anything else they wanted to do, were more than happy to stay home. All eyes rested eager and content on the man in the neat white shirt and sober gray vest. He tipped the pasteboards carefully from their dog-eared box into his waiting palm, shuffled one-handed. Then he slapped the deck down smartly at the head of the table and invited Chris to deal.

-The End-


End file.
